


between the sinners and the saints

by underthesatellites



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, Foster Care, Found Family, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-09-27 05:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 91,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17155973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthesatellites/pseuds/underthesatellites
Summary: “You don’t know me,” Alex told her, but she wasn’t listening. They never did.You don’t know mehe reminded himself, hiding his hands under the table so she wouldn’t see as his fingers curled into fists and count it as another strike against him.-Alternatively: yet another foster care au, featuring a gifted but troubled Alexander Hamilton, the overly friendly rev set and all their hijinks, some familiar antagonists, and of course the benevolent Washingtons.-complete-





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> this is super self-indulgent. write the fic you wish to read in the world, or whatever.
> 
> unbeta’d, any mistakes are my own, etc etc. tags may change as more chapters are posted, but i think i've hit all the main themes. i think this will end up being around 10 chapters total and it's more or less plotted out, so we'll see how quickly i can keep updating.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let this moment be the first chapter

When Alex used to lie awake at night, curled under a threadbare blanket with his knobby knees tucked into his chest, he pictured this moment. The judge in formal black robes, looking down from the bench through wire framed glasses; the bored bailiff near the door, hand resting on a baton secured to his belt; the adrenaline of the courtroom, Alex poised on the edge of his seat, ready to argue.

His ankle wasn’t cuffed to the floor in those fantasies, though.

He can’t help fidgeting, even though every time he moves and the chain clinks, he has to tense his muscles to keep from flinching. The sound is barbaric.

“This is barbaric,” he whispers to his attorney. His attorney does not respond, even when Alex shakes his leg harder, the chain rattling. “What am I gonna do, make a run for it? Prison break, juvie edition?”

“Stop talking,” his attorney mutters to him. He hasn’t met Alex’s eye once since the bailiff brought Alex into the courtroom and snapped the cuff around his leg.

When Alex is an attorney, he decides, he’s going to wear tailored suits, not ill-fitting tweed. His tie will be straight and his shoes unscuffed. Probably he will still have bags under his eyes, though.

“Do you sleep well at night?” Alex asks, sotto voce. “Because the bags under your eyes are, like, super pronounced.” Worse than Alex’s, even. “They make eye cream for that, you know. Or can you not afford it on a public defender’s salary?” Maybe his attorney doesn’t make enough to buy suits that fit, either. There are no excuses for that crooked tie.

“Does your client have something to say?” the judge asks, cutting into the DA’s long-winded speech about Alex’s shortcomings. You’d think he was a felon, the way the DA talks about him. Like a history of school suspensions is equivalent to a rap sheet. Okay, fine, there’s the running thing too, but that’s completely defensible. Alex isn’t a _flight risk_. It was just the one time – or, well, technically twice if you count that night at the bus station, which Alex doesn’t – but it’s not like he managed to stay gone for long. There are only so many options for a homeless, jobless, family-less teen, and he burned through all of them with remarkable speed.

Alex’s attorney tugs at his collar, rumpling it further. “Uh, no, your Honor,” he tells the judge. To Alex, he adds in a furious whisper, “You are going to make things worse for yourself if you don’t _stop talking_.”

“Get some new material,” Alex mumbles under his breath, slumping down in his seat as far as his shackled ankle will let him. The judge gives him another sharp look, and Alex snaps his jaw shut so hard his teeth click. He’s impulsive, sure, but he’s not stupid. Even a delinquent like Alex can figure out you don’t piss off the person who holds your entire future in their hands. Because that’s what he is now, right? A delinquent.

With his tongue in check, the nervous energy comes out through his fingers instead. Alex folds and unfolds the sheaf of papers in front of him. The words are already burned into his brain, even as the creases make them increasingly unreadable. Count one, Disorderly Conduct. Count two, Resisting/Obstruction. A detailed report of both from the arresting officer’s perspective. Who knew it was a crime to lecture cops on police brutality instead of giving them your name?

One of Alex’s knuckles is scabbed over (a souvenir from Count one, Disorderly Conduct), and he resists the urge to scratch at it, even though the healing skin underneath is itchy and irritating. The staff in the detention center who assessed him when the cops first brought him in watched the way he picked at it until it a trickle of blood oozed out, then checked the ‘self-harm’ box on her checklist.

“Yeah, no, uncheck that box,” Alex told her. “I’m not – I don’t do that.”

She raised one thin eyebrow. “I’m sorry, are you the one who’s trained to complete this assessment?”

Tapping the top of the paper, Alex said, “It says ‘self-report’ right here. I’m sorry, but _I’m_ the one who’s self-reporting.”

Pressing her lips into a severe line, she slid her pen down the paper until she reached the word ‘defiant’ and slashed an aggressive check through that box, too.

Somehow, that was more demeaning than the detention center uniform they’d dressed him in, the pat-down searches they subjected him to after visits with his worker, or the general lack of privacy. That this woman thought a fifteen-minute interaction was enough time to categorize him, to size him up and judge him, to brand him with words the system would use as weapons against him.

“You don’t know me,” Alex told her, but she wasn’t listening. They never did. _You don’t know me_ he reminded himself, hiding his hands under the table so she wouldn’t see as his fingers curled into fists and count it as another strike against him.

This judge doesn’t know Alex, either. In her eyes, he’s just another juvenile delinquent, another troubled youth, another foster kid destined to age out of the system and into a life of mediocrity, at best. She addresses the DA and his attorney, discussing statutes and legal terms that sound vaguely familiar but fly over his head, the sound of his pounding heart much louder.

The entire court hearing is kind of a blur, all of Alex’s energy focused on not talking, on not _making things worse_. It doesn’t make listening any easier, and he startles when his attorney nudges his arm.

“What?” he asks.

His attorney is looking at him expectantly. “This plea deal is your best shot. It’s only on the table because you don’t have a prior record. And deferred prosecution means the charges will be dropped if you meet all the conditions within six months.”

 _And if I don’t?_ he almost asks, but Alex already knows the answer. Back to court, back to detention, back to a thin mattress in a lonely cell. At least the group home has windows. It’s only been a few weeks since he caught a case and landed himself in detention, but Alex misses windows.

The judge looks down at Alex over the top of her glasses. “How does your client plead, Attorney Phillips?”

Alex takes a deep breath. This is his ticket out, even though it goes against his instincts not to fight it. How long would a trial take? And what chance in hell would he have of winning? This is a six-month slap on the wrist, a get out of jail free card -- as long as he can hold it together. God, he needs to hold it together.

He nods at his attorney, and his attorney tells the judge, “Alexander is in agreement with the conditions of the Deferred Prosecution Agreement, and will plead guilty to both counts.”

He’s surprised when the judge meets his gaze, addressing her next question directly to him. “You understand that if you don’t meet the conditions of this agreement, you will be back in front of me facing both of these charges?”

Alex swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

She studies him with shrewd eyes. It’s hard not to fidget under her stare. Harder still to sit up straight and square his shoulders, but Alex has never been afraid of a challenge. He holds her gaze, unflinching.

“I’ve reviewed your file, Alexander,” the judge says after a moment. “You’re a bright young man, despite your circumstances. This is an opportunity that not everyone gets. Don’t throw it away. I hope I don’t see you back here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats. His hands are clammy; they smudge the ink on his crinkled sheaf of papers.

And just like that, it’s over. Court is dismissed, and the bailiff comes to unlock the cuff around his ankle. Clutching his papers, Alex asks, “When do I…?”

His attorney is already on his phone, and doesn’t bother to glance Alex’s way. “Your worker will have to come pick you up sometime today.”

The bailiff wraps a big hand around Alex’s bicep, leading him towards the locked door at the back of the court room.

Alex doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t plan to see a court room from this angle again.

-

Abigail gets him just after lunch, hours after the hearing is over.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” is the first thing out of her mouth. “I know how much you love the food here.”

“Ha,” Alex says, shrugging on his coat. It’s big on his scrawny frame, even scrawnier now that he’s spent the past month picking at the shit they pass off as food. He zips his coat up halfway, biting his tongue to keep from asking about the weather outside. As much as he can’t wait to feel fresh air on his face, he’s got no interest in looking overeager and letting Abigail realize just how desperate for freedom he’s been.

 “I do have good news, though,” Abigail continues. She leads the way out of the double set of doors of the detention center, and they both ignore the way Alex jumps at the loud buzz that unlocks them.

“You won the lottery, and you’re moving to Mexico,” Alex guesses. “Got yourself a beachfront property right there on the ocean.”

“I wish. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers.” Of all the workers Alex has had over the years, Abigail has the best sense of humor. He’ll miss her more than most when she eventually moves on. The good ones never last in CPS. He’s learned better than to get attached.

They finally make it outside, and the cold feels like a slap. Alex normally hates winter, but today it’s his favorite. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that’s not stale and recycled.

Abigail smiles knowingly at him, and he can’t detect any pity in it. He hates how grateful it makes him feel. “So what’s the good news, then?” he asks to avoid thinking about his feelings.

Picking her way through the parking lot while Alex follows a half step behind, Abigail says, “I found you another foster home.”

That surprises him. “Really?” He narrows his eyes. “They do know I just got out of juvie, right?”

Abigail waves her hand, like she can magically wipe away the last month. “Alex, you have a couple of misdemeanors and you’re not even on probation. This will all be water under the bridge if you can manage six months with no fights.”

Alex spares all of three seconds to think about this. “But—”

Unlocking the car, Abigail gestures for him to get in the passenger seat. “No buts. The Washingtons have read your file, they know about your – brush with the law.”

 _Brush with the law_ , like Alex got a speeding ticket instead of handcuffed and shoved into the back of the cop car. Abigail would make a better attorney than the joke who defended Alex with the way she can spin things.

“And they just can’t wait to open their home to a troubled youth?”

Abigail shoots him a look. “If you want to go back to the group home instead—”

“No, no I didn’t say that,” Alex cuts in hastily.

Abigail’s eyes are on the road as she pulls out of the parking lot, leaving the monstrosity of the court house/detention center behind them. Alex fiddles with his coat zipper, tugging it up and down, because Abigail bitches when he constantly changes the radio station and he needs something to do with his hands.

“Look, I know how hard transitioning to a new place is, okay?” Abigail says. “And I don’t know if this will make you feel better or worse, but it’ll be a sort of sixty-day trial with the Washingtons. It’s a licensing thing that you don’t need to worry about, but just know that if it’s not a good fit, you won’t be stuck there, alright?”

Alex’s chest feels a little tight. Abigail does like to spin things. “So they’ve already got a built-in escape clause. Good to know.”

Shaking her head, Abigail says, “Apparently you do need to worry about it. Alex, they’re going through the foster care licensing process again in order to take placement of you specifically.”

Alex stares at her, but Abigail is still watching the road. “What? _Why?_ ”

“I may have included some of your articles from the school newspaper in my referral. And begged my girl in licensing to reach out to some former foster parents until she found the Washingtons – who loved your article about school resource officers, by the way. Then I pulled really, _really_ hard on their heartstrings until they caved.”

It doesn’t take Alex long to digest this, either. “So they think I’m some poor, sad orphan they can save through the goodness of their hearts?”

“No, they think you are a brilliant young man who needs some stability in his life, and they’re not wrong. They also have an adopted son about your age, which is why they let their foster care license expire in the first place. They know what they’re getting into.” Well, that’s certainly a lie.

“Okay, so what you’re _really_ saying is—”

“Tell you what,” Abigail cuts in. “Let’s make a deal. I will buy you lunch from a fast food place of your choosing, and you won’t write the Washingtons off until you at least meet them. Those are more than fair terms.”

Alex thinks about it and makes a quick decision. “I want a Big Mac _and_ chicken nuggets, or no deal.”

“I’ll even throw in a large fry,” Abigail says, because she knows just how effective her bribery is.

Alex won’t complain. “Deal.”

-

Naturally, all the greasy food makes Alex’s stomach hurt; that, or the growing nerves that tie his insides into knots as they leave the crowded city behind and make their way into the suburbs.

“Does the school even have busses that go out this far?” Alex asks, rubbing the salt and grease clinging to his fingers off onto his already dirty jeans. The rest of his clothes probably aren’t much better, shoved into a single garbage bag in Abigail’s trunk.

“I’m not sure, but the Washingtons planned to enroll you into the same school as their son, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“What?” Alex leans forward so suddenly the seatbelt catches, jerking him back. “I can’t change schools! We’re halfway through the year, and I already missed the end of the semester.”

“Alex. Take a breath. We’ve made arrangements for you to complete your exams so you can salvage your grades for this term, okay? And Lake Forest Prep is—”

“Hold up. They’re enrolling me in _Lake Forest Prep_? They’re one of the top high schools in Virginia for—” Ivy League admission rates. Not that Alex has spent long hours in front of the dated computer at the public library near the group home, researching admission requirements for schools he doesn’t have a shot in hell at getting into, let alone affording.

He shakes his head, disbelieving. “No way. You could buy a house with cost of a year’s tuition there.”

“A hefty down payment, maybe,” Abigail agrees dryly.

“A fixer upper,” Alex counters. “Which you could afford to renovate with the cost of next year’s tuition. The Washingtons do know I’m only a junior, right? Or -- oh, well.” His shoulders slump. Of course it doesn’t matter. “They really aren’t planning on keeping me that long, are they?” He let himself forget for just a second, but the bitterness of his disappointment will last a lot longer.

“Let’s focus on getting through the next sixty days first, okay?”

Alex lets his head bang audibly against the window, and doesn’t miss Abigail’s sigh. “Or even the next hour,” she adds. “That’s a reasonable goal.”

The houses get progressively bigger, until Abigail finally turns down a wide, tree-lined street with well-manicured lawns and ornate fencing designed to look nice as it keeps unworthy people out. People who don’t belong; people like Alex, with his stained clothes and hair in desperate need of a cut, with his ragged nails and his quick mouth, always getting him into trouble.

Abigail pulls into a circular driveway, stopping the car in front of an imposing set of double doors. They both sit there a moment, taking it in.

“Alex.” Abigail says at last. She pauses, and the heavy silence is a warning for what’s about to come. “No one can predict the future,” she starts, and Alex’s mouth is opening before he even thinks about it.

“Oh, good. I was hoping the ‘don’t fuck this up’ speech would open with a solid non sequitur. You’re off to a great start. Don’t let me stop you.”

Sighing, Abigail points to her temple. “See this gray hair right here? This one is named Alexander.”

Alex grins. “Only one named for me?”

“Invest in hair dye,” she advises him. “As long as you’re around, the market is going to boom.”

Tsking, Alex says, “And I thought no one could predict the future.”

“ _Alex_ \--”

“They’re going to think we’re casing the house if we don’t get out of the car,” he points out reasonably, one hand on the door handle.

“No one can predict the future,” Abigail repeats, only louder, as if Alex’s attempts to derail her never happened. “And if I thought a long-winded lecture would change yours, this would be the moment for it. But I think we both know better, so I’m just going to say this: you were dealt a shitty hand, Alex. Card after card. But this home? This is probably the best shot you’re going to get to take the house.”

Alex’s stomach flips uneasily. He shouldn’t have gotten the chicken nuggets, or eaten the last few fries at the bottom of the bag. He rubs his clammy palms against his thighs, really grinding in the salt and grease. At this point, he’s so practiced at shoving down his anxiety that his voice comes out almost exactly as light as he intends. “You’re saying the Washingtons are my royal flush. My ace in the hole. My--”

“I already regret this metaphor. Just, shut up and listen for a second, would you?”

Alex pantomimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key, and Abigail presses hers together against a smile.

“What I’m saying, Alex, is that this is the chance you deserved to have three years ago. It’s not fair that it’s coming now, after everything you’ve been put through, but it’s here. Don’t throw it away.”

It’s hard to swallow suddenly. “I won’t,” he promises her, like promises aren’t broken as easily as homes.

Abigail doesn’t say anything else, just turns the car off and pops the trunk. Between the two of them, they manage to carry all of Alex’s stuff up to the door. The lumpy garbage bag of clothes and battered cardboard box containing everything else he owns look out of place on the Washington's fancy front porch. Alex hitches his backpack higher up on his shoulder, hanging back as Abigail rings the bell, trying to cover his nerves.

The door opens almost immediately.

“You must be Ms. Adams!” says a warm voice. “The one I spoke to over the phone? It’s lovely to meet you in person.”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Abigail says, then deftly sidesteps so Alex can’t hide behind her. “And this is Alexander. Alex, this is Mrs. Washington.”

“Oh, just Martha is fine,” Just Martha says, with a smile as warm as her voice. She looks less suburban house-mom than Alex expected, although about as expensive. Her smooth, medium-brown skin puts her anywhere from 35 to 50, and her dark eyes are kind.

Alex has been fooled by kind eyes before, though. And he doesn’t like to repeat mistakes.

“Come in, come in,” Martha says, stepping back from the door. “Do you need help carrying anything inside?”

“No, ma’am,” Alex tells her, hefting up the garbage bag. It’s not even full, and he tries not to feel ashamed. Abigail waves off Martha’s assistance, too, carrying Alex’s small box into the large front hall. It’s two stories, with a grand, curving staircase leading to the second floor. You could fit two bedrooms the size of the one Alex shared with another kid in the group home in this room alone.

“Damn,” he says under his breath, but Abigail must hear him because she catches his eye and gives him a look that clearly translates as _don’t blow this before you’ve even made it past the hallway_.

“You’ll be able to meet my husband, George, later tonight – he works long hours – but Gilbert should be home from school a little after 4pm,” Martha explains, directing them to put Alex’s stuff near the stairs.

Alex shoots Abigail a pointed glance, and she catches on right away.

“Ah, I thought the semester just ended?” she asks smoothly.

“Gil’s just finishing up exams this week. The spring term starts week after next.” Martha beams. “Great timing, isn’t it? You’ll be able to get settled in before starting back at school.”

“A fresh start,” Abigail agrees. “That’s exactly what Alex is looking for. Right, Alex?”

“Right,” he parrots, distractedly eyeing what bit of the house is visible through the doorways off the main entrance. The hall smells fancy, like potpourri or some shit, but there’s something faint and delicious coming from the direction he hopes is the kitchen.

“Let’s start with a quick tour of the house, then,” Martha suggests. Abigail tags along, either because she always likes to put eyes on wherever she places Alex, or – just as likely -- to make sure he doesn’t fuck up his first impression. Either way, Alex is glad for the reprieve. Abigail isn’t exactly family, but she’s familiar. He’ll be own his own when she leaves, fending for himself in a house full of strangers, with too many unknowns to predict what could happen. For all the times he’s had to move, foster home to foster home, then to the group home after he burned too many bridges, he’s never gotten good at this part.

The tour ends in Alex’s room. There’s a double bed, freshly made; Alex can smell the clean scent of detergent lingering on the bedsheets. He sets his backpack down by a wooden desk, trying not to wince at how dirty and frayed it looks in the clean space.

“I hope you like the color okay,” Martha tells him.

It hadn’t occurred to Alex to have a preference about the color. If he didn’t like the dark blue walls, would they have let him paint them? He almost wants to ask, just to see what Martha would say, but Abigail is standing right there as a reminder to hold it together.

“We previously used this space as a guest room,” Martha continues, “but we want you to feel at home in here, all right? Let us know what we can do to make it more comfortable for you.”

“Um,” Alex says, scratching the back of his neck. A few strands of hair have come loose from his ponytail, catching on his fingers. He’s struck by the thought that he’s come straight here from the detention center, wearing the same clothes he was arrested in a month ago. How did Abigail think she could salvage this first impression? “Thank you, but it’s fine. I mean, I don’t mind the blue.”

They head back downstairs, and Abigail checks and double checks that he’s okay before she leaves.

“Call me if you need me,” she reminds him. “Otherwise I will see you next month. And hey,” she adds, a little quieter, while Martha gives them space, pretending like she can’t hear every word. “Good reports for the court, all right?”

Alex gives her a mock salute and she shakes her head. “I’m going to need so much hair dye.” Louder, she adds, “Thanks again, Martha. I’ll be in touch, but please call me if anything comes up. You have my number.”

The house is quiet after the door shuts behind Abigail, leaving Alex and Martha alone in the too-big hallway.

“I’ll just—” Alex starts, reaching for his bag of clothes. “Take these upstairs?”

“Actually,” Martha says slowly. “I was thinking you might want to run them through the wash first.”

Alex flushes red, heat crawling up his neck, but Martha doesn’t miss a beat, continuing in a gentle voice, “I remember the day Gil first arrived. His previous caregiver hadn’t taken very good care of his things, and they all smelled a bit musty. Abigail said you were living in a group home before this?”

“Yeah,” Alex gets out. His face still feels hot.

“Keeping up with Gil’s laundry alone is a herculean task – I can’t imagine how difficult it was with multiple teenage boys living the same home. Why don’t I show you the laundry room, and you can decide if you’d like to wash your things or not?”

“I’d—” Alex stops, clears his throat. There’s a prickle at the back of it, and his eyes sting a little. He takes a few breaths, trying to pull himself together before Martha figures out what a mess he is over the simple kindness of being able to clean his clothes, and calls Abigail to come back and get him. “I think I’d like to wash them,” he says at last, voice small. “Thanks.”

Picking up his bag, Alex follows Martha through the house and downstairs to the finished basement. She takes him through a door they hadn’t opened during the brief tour and into the unfinished portion of the space, where an expensive looking washer and dryer sit.

“Do you know how to do laundry?” she asks, managing to keep the question sounding neutral instead of judgmental.

“Yeah, but the one at the group home wasn’t this, um… complex,” Alex tells her. He shifts his weight, his thin socks no match for the cold cement floors.

Martha looks strangely pleased as she talks him through the various cycle settings and buttons. “Oh, you’re going to be such a positive influence on Gil. He acts like he’s allergic to dirty clothes. I can’t remember the last time he’s so much as stepped through the door into this half of the basement.”

Alex isn’t stupid enough to laugh at a seemingly nice foster parent with an insanely nice house, even if the thought that _he_ would be the one who’s a positive influence is the biggest joke he’s heard all day.

“We usually get just the basic detergent, but if there’s a particular kind you like, we keep a list on the fridge for the weekly grocery run. Anything you want, just go ahead and add it, okay?” she says, helping Alex sort through his clothes. There aren’t many, and they all smell like garbage bag.

Once the washer starts filling with water, she leads them back into the finish portion of the basement, where thick carpet warms Alex’s chilled feet.

“Why don’t you settle down and relax?” Martha suggests, gesturing to the biggest TV Alex has seen in someone’s actual home. “I know you’ve had a long day, and change is never easy. I’ll be upstairs in my office if you want to talk, but if you want to take some time to yourself, you go right ahead, okay?”

“Sure,” Alex agrees faintly.

-

The Washingtons’ couch is very comfortable, but their TV is very hard to figure out. Alex quickly gives up on trying to watch cable, but there’s an extensive DVD collection, and the TV’s cooperative with the DVD player as soon as he pops a disc in. He doesn’t pay attention to what he’s picked, just turns the volume down low and sinks into the overstuffed cushions.

It’s almost too soft after the thin mattress pad he slept on while in the detention center, but his eyes start to droop all the same. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a decent night’s sleep. Definitely well before his arrest; even at the group home, he never slept well, always on alert, the soft snoring of his roommate or the staff’s creaking footsteps during their nightly round check waking him up every time.

Last night in particular was a bad one, with his stomach in knots over his court hearing. He finally fell asleep close to morning, only to be jarred awake by the morning alarm.

He doesn’t quite manage to drift off, comfortable as the couch is, but he’s not entirely awake either, which is why the thud of feet descending the basement steps doesn’t register right away.

The movement at the far end of the couch does, however, and Alex startles badly, his heart racing as he sits up, instantly on high alert.

“Sorry,” says a boy whose face matches the one in pictures stuck to the fridge. His dark hair is pulled back, tied into a thick ponytail at the back of his head, and he hovers at the end of the couch, studying Alex with open interest. He looks enough like the Washingtons to be their biological son.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he adds in a surprisingly French accent.

“You didn’t,” Alex quickly lies, forcing himself to relax back into the couch like he belongs here. That’s the key, really. Convince them that you belong, even when you know you don’t. Then you only have to worry about fooling yourself.

“Martha said you were down here,” the boy continues, still studying Alex with an inscrutable expression. “You’re not what I expected,” he decides at last.

“What did you expect?” Alex asks before he can stop himself.

The boy suddenly smiles, small and sly. “Ahh, what _did_ I expect? Much more black. Tattoos and piercings everywhere. Oh, and a leather jacket with ‘hooligan’ or ‘rebel’ or maybe ‘motorcycle’ written on the back in those fancy letters.”

Alex laughs in disbelief. “You expected me to be some kind of… punk rocker? Emo kid? With a leather jacket that said _motorcycle_?”

With a shrug, the boy throws himself onto the couch opposite Alex, leaving plenty of space between them. “I thought perhaps ‘T-bird,’ but that is too _Grease_ , I think.”

Shaking his head, Alex asks, “What wires got crossed in your brain that you associate ‘foster kid’ with – I actually can’t figure out what stereotype you’re trying to describe.”

The boys snaps his fingers. “No, no, no, I’ve got it now - _Angels in the Outfield_! You like baseball, yes?”

“Bro,” Alex says flatly. “You gotta get out more.”

This time when the boy smiles, it takes up his whole face, crinkling his eyes into happy little half-moons. Alex’s mother always said you could trust a smile that reaches someone’s eyes like that. She said a lot of things, but ‘always’ turned out to be a lie.

“I am joking, of course. How do you say -- putting the elephant through the ice?”

It takes Alex a second. “Do you mean ‘the elephant in the room’ or ‘breaking the ice’?”

“Yes!” the boy says, which doesn’t actually answer the question. “Now we have acknowledged that stereotypes are not to be trusted, and we can just be people, yes? Oh, but I haven’t introduced myself, I’m--”

“The infamous Gilbert,” Alex cuts in.

The boy shakes his head theatrically. “Non! I mean, yes, George and Martha insist on calling me that, and I certainly _am_ infamous, but I prefer Lafayette.”

“Lafayette?”

With a careless handwave, Lafayette explains, “It is my middle name. Well, one of them. It’s what everyone else calls me.”

Alex nods. He’s not one to pry. “Lafayette it is, then.”

“And that makes you,” Lafayette says grandly, “the infamous Alexander.”

Sticking out his hand, Alex says, “Infamous, sure, but I prefer Alex.”

Lafayette takes the offered hand, looking pleased. “Alex it is, then. My foster brother from another mother.”

Alex can feel how brittle his smile turns at the offhand comment, not expecting _that_ particular topic, but Lafayette doesn’t know him well enough to notice before he covers it up, schooling his expression. “Sure,” he says.

Frowning, Lafayette says, “I have put my foot inside it. You’re upset. What did I say?”

Okay, so Lafayette is more than a pretty face. Alex scrubs a hand over his mouth, quickly trying to figure out how to deflect. “Nothing. It was nothing. Really, I’m just – it’s been a long day, you know? Sorry, I’m still settling in.”

“Non, you have nothing to apologize for. Of course it’s okay. We have not yet unlocked each other’s tragic backstories, have we? That takes time. And trust. Our backstories are more tragic than most, I think.”

Before Alex can figure out how to reply to _that_ , the washer buzzes in the next room. “I should—” he jerks his thumb towards the door.

Lafayette looks vaguely horrified. “You are doing your own laundry? Mon Dieu, Martha will never let me live this down.”

He sounds so distraught that Alex can’t help the laugh that bursts out. He slaps a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late to take it back.

Instead of getting mad, though, Lafayette starts laughing too. “Oh, I like you, Alex. You are going to put me on my toes.”

“Keep you on your toes,” Alex corrects automatically.

Kicking his feet up onto the ottoman, Lafayette grabs for the remote. “Isn’t that what I said?”

 

* * *

 

 

> **SCHOOL RESOURCE OFFICERS – A RESOURCE FOR RACISM?  
>  By Alexander Hamilton**
> 
> The presence of school resource officers has increased by 41% since 1975, with much of that increase a direct result of school shootings. But with the staggering odds of less than 1 in 1 million of a child being killed in a mass school shooting, what effect do these officers really have on safety? And more importantly, what’s the cost? The 223,000 referrals made to law enforcement by schools during the 2013-14 school year tells us that the cost is more than just financial. Schools are no longer a safe haven for students, particularly for students of color, who are more likely to… (cont. on page 7).

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who knows how the juvenile justice system works in virginia? not me. a DPA is a real thing in other states, though, even if i fudged some procedural court stuff to speed things along. #fiction 
> 
> also, the stats from alex’s article were lifted directly from this article. i’m sure he cited his sources :) https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-watch/wp/2018/02/22/putting-more-cops-in-schools-wont-make-schools-safer-and-it-will-likely-inflict-a-lot-of-harm/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.dc5c70e0b3b7


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inside he was longing for something to be a part of

Throwing his wet clothes into the dryer gives Alex a moment to himself. Martha was right; Lafayette makes no move to follow Alex into the unfinished portion of the basement where the laundry sits. Alex lingers longer than he needs to, tossing his stuff into the dryer one damp article of clothing at a time and fiddling with the settings, even though Martha already talked him through them.

When he steps back through the door, Lafayette arches with his head resting on the back of the couch so that he can look at Alex upside down over the top of it.

“Would you rather have Chinese or pizza?” he asks.

Alex makes his way around the couch, perching on the edge of the cushion. “Like, right now, or in general?”

Deflating back into a lazy sprawl, Lafayette appears to think about this. “Would it change your answer?”

“Why are you asking?” Alex counters.

One side of Lafayette’s mouth pulls up into a crooked grin. “Are we playing that game where you answer every question with another question?”

Alex has to make an effort not to smile back. It’s an unusual feeling for him. “What do you think?”

“Mon ami, I think my brain will explode if I try to keep up with you.” There’s no irritation in Lafayette’s voice, just amusement, and Alex sinks a little further into the couch. “I will go first in answering, yes? I ask because I would like to exploit your arrival by convincing Martha to order us something for dinner.” Lafayette leans closer to add in a conspiratorial whisper, “She and George made a new year’s resolution to order less take out, and I made one to ensure that they fail. Martha is a woman of many talents, but cooking isn’t one of them.”

Lafayette is clearly aiming for a laugh, because he looks satisfied at Alex’s snort. “George is the only one of us with any skill in the kitchen,” he adds, “but he usually works too late to cook. And as we are poor starving orphans, I think we deserve nourishment, non?”

Alex cocks his head. “You play the orphan card a lot?”

“ _Bro_ ,” Lafayette says in an exaggerated American accent, one hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “We are a pair now! Surely that means we deserve a night of decadent, greasy food.” He shifts a little closer to Alex, all earnest sincerity. “But I do not mean to make you uncomfortable. For me, it is easiest to make jokes, yes? In that way, I do not give my past power over me. I do not presume to know what you prefer.”

A loose strand of hair tickles Alex’s cheek, and he tucks his behind his ear. Making a split-second decision, he tells Lafayette, “I prefer pizza with the works.”

It’s the right answer. Lafayette tips his head back in a laugh, and Alex is reminded for the first time in a long time what a home can feel like.

-

Martha folds easily, and for the second time that day, Alex is uncomfortably full of both grease and regret. The remnants of the pizza they demolished sit in a grease-stained box on the coffee table, along with several empty cans of diet coke.

“We need another round,” Lafayette decides. He’s currently losing a battle with gravity, sunk so deep into the couch that Alex can just barely see the poof of his hair and one folded knee.

“Of pizza?” Alex might actually throw up.

“ _Non_. Of coke. I am so thirsty, Alex.” Lafayette turns the same puppy-dog eyes on Alex that won them the pizza.

“You can’t play the sad orphan card on a sad orphan,” Alex says, and it earns him another laugh from Lafayette. He tries not to feel pleased.

“ _S'il vous plait_! You can pick the next movie,” Lafayette tries to bargain. He flops over onto the couch so he can look up at Alex beseechingly, widening his big brown eyes even more.  

Alex doesn’t have the attention span for movies, but Lafayette was so into the last one that he didn’t notice. That worked just fine for Alex; movies are low key, low stress, especially when he’s still feeling Lafayette out. He can handle movies, even if they come with a side of boredom.

“Fine,” he says, pushing to his feet. It’s not a bad deal. He can choose one he’s seen before and then he won’t have to make any effort whatsoever to focus. “But no complaining if you don’t like my pick.”

Lafayette crosses his heart. “I would never.”

Alex makes his way up the stairs and onto the main floor. Already the Washington’s house feels more familiar, and he finds his way to the kitchen without a single wrong turn, although maybe he doesn’t deserve that much credit. The kitchen is massive and easy to find, dominated by a huge, stainless steel refrigerator at one end. The shiny surface is surprisingly cluttered with pictures and magnets; the epitome of a perfect, happy family.

Alex doesn’t linger. Doesn’t like the weird feeling in his chest when he looks at pictures of Lafayette at the beach, smiling wide with his arm over Martha’s shoulder, a bald man wearing dark sunglasses who must be George towering over both of them. Did his mom used to have a picture of him stuck to the fridge? He can’t remember.

His stomach turns. Too much pizza. Too much regret.

The diet coke is buried in the back of the fridge, and it takes a moment for Alex to dig out a couple cans. He doesn’t know where they keep more to restock, figures it’s a problem to leave for tomorrow.

Letting the door swing shut behind him, he turns to head back downstairs, and nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Oh my god. Gosh! Goodness, I meant goodness, shit – shoot! Sorry, uh, sir. I was just – Laf asked me to, I mean, and I—”

“Easy, sailor,” says the offensively tall man who scared the shit out of Alex. His voice is deep, but surprisingly soft, and he holds out both hands, palms forward in a placating gesture, like Alex is a feral cat, ready to strike. Alex swears he can feel his heart thumping against his rib cage with each painful beat, and focuses all his energy on keeping his breathing under control, not letting on how panicked he actually is. Fuck, but that startled him.

“You must be Alexander,” the man adds in that same, soft tone.

“Yes, sir,” Alex says, standing up straight and clutching the sweating cans of diet coke in both hands.

The corner of the man’s mouth – George, this towering giant must be George – twitches with something like amusement. “At ease. I should be the one apologizing; I thought you were Gil. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s--” fine? Your house? My fault? Alex doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, his words a jumble. Should he put the soda back before George yells at him for taking all of it and call this whole venture a wash?

George doesn’t yell. Instead, he offers a big hand, and Alex has to rearrange the diet coke, tucking both cans under one arm, in order to shake it. George has a firm grip and a dry palm, unlike Alex’s sweaty one. A trustworthy handshake, if a handshake is a thing that can be trusted. Alex knows better.

Releasing Alex’s hand and nodding to the soda, George asks benignly, “You a big fan of diet coke?”

Ah, so they’ve entered the small talk portion of this exchange. Alex can handle this. He can. It’s better than dealing with a raised voice and verbal barbs that get under his skin, too painful to dislodge. Unless George is the type to bide him time, his temper a slow, harmless simmer until it suddenly boils over into something dangerous.

“I don’t have a preference,” he lies instinctively, then tries not to wince. It’s small talk, clearly it’s just small talk. George isn’t fishing for information to use against Alex when he inevitably fucks up.

But still. Best to keep anything personal to himself until he gets a better sense of what George might do with it. That’s just good sense.

“Oh?” George sounds only mildly interested. “Well, if you change your mind, add it to the list.” He gestures to the fridge. “Did Martha mention? You can add whatever you like, and we’ll pick it up the next time we go grocery shopping.”

Alex nods. “She mentioned it, yeah.” Pulling himself together with sheer force of will, Alex tips his chin up, determined to meet George’s eye. Since he’s on the short side of average, he really has to crane his neck, which does not make him feel any more in control.

George offers him a tired smile in return, and it’s only now that Alex’s heartbeat has slowly returned to a normal rhythm that he notices the dress shirt and tie, George’s snow-white sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows after a long day at the office. A long day at the office in the _U.S. fucking capitol_ , because –

“You’re _George Washington_ ,” Alex blurts out. “Like, _Senator_ George Washington. What the f—I mean. Sir?”

George is clearly amused now. “No need to call me sir, son.”

“No need to call me _son_ , sir,” Alex shoots back, and immediately wants to throw himself through a window. His foster father is only a U.S. Senator -- one of the few whose policies Alex can stomach at that -- and here he is, talking back like he’s trying to get himself kicked out.

“I’m sorry,” he quickly starts to say, but George holds up a hand, cutting him off.

“That’s the second time you’ve apologized tonight when I’m clearly the one at fault. I’m sorry; I should’ve asked what you prefer to be called instead of making assumptions. Will you accept my excuse that I’m a tired old man and give me another shot at this first impression thing?”

Usually it’s Alex with the apologies and excuses. This exchange is all backwards.

“…Sure,” he says. And then, because he can’t help himself and, well, George _said_ he wanted another shot at a first impression, Alex tacks on, “Do you think the immigration reform bill will pass? I mean, the dems have already had to gut so much of it in the name of bipartisanship, which is bull sh--, uh, bull crap, if you ask me – but it at least lays some groundwork for further reform, I think.”

George’s eyebrows climb halfway up his forehead. “Abigail mentioned you followed politics. I see she undersold you.”

“I don’t see how anyone _doesn’t_ follow politics.” Alex throws his hands out, and nearly drops the diet coke. He fumbles with it as he talks, hastily shoving both cans onto the counter to keep them from falling to the floor. “Like, it’s only the future of our country – our very lives at stake! Take the immigration bill for example. How many people will suffer indefinitely in inhumane refugee camps because republicans are afraid to open our borders to them, when it’s our fault their countries were destabilized in the first place? And so many people take their racist rhetoric at face value, refusing to even question it! It’s unbelievable to me that there’s not more outrage from the general public. I mean, have you _seen_ what politicians think they can get away with if the people don’t hold them accountable? Oh.” Alex pauses for a breath. “I guess probably you have.”

“It’s worse than you think,” George tells him in a tired voice.  

Not likely. Alex thinks plenty of terrible things.

“But it’s refreshing to see a young person so passionate about politics,” he adds, sounding marginally more upbeat.

“Well, I just think—”

“Alex?” Lafayette calls from down the hall, cutting Alex off before he reaches full steam. “Did you get lost on your way to the kitchen, _mon petit chou_?”

“Oops,” Alex says as Lafayette pops his head through the kitchen doorway.

“We were just having a little chat,” George explains. That’s probably most charitable description Alex has heard about one of his rants. George rests a big hand on one of Alex’s shoulders, and he tries not to sink under the weight of it. “This one’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

That’s definitely the most charitable description Alex has heard about himself. He has no idea how to respond.

“Um. I got the coke?” he offers meekly, grabbing both cans off the counter and clutching them close.

-

If there’s a rule about lights out, it doesn’t appear to be enforced. He and Lafayette stay up until Laf’s yawning his way through the end credits, despite the amount of caffeine they’ve consumed. George and Martha have long since said good night, but Alex can’t help sneaking anxious glances towards the stairs, waiting for them to reappear and yell at both of them about the late hour.

Alex follows Lafayette’s lead when he makes his way upstairs to bed, hiding a yawn of his own behind his hand. It’s been a long day, and it’s finally catching up to him.

Naturally, the second Alex crawls under the covers, he’s wide awake. The sheets are soft and the house is quiet. There’s no creak of the mattress as someone rolls over across the room, or snuffling or sniffling or snoring. It should be easy to fall asleep.

It’s never easy to fall asleep.

Alex watches as the red numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table tick steadily by. His eyes feel gritty, but whenever he lets them slip shut, his mind races, leaving his chest tight and breathless. He tosses and turns for awhile, and when that loses its appeal, he finally turns on the light.

He’s only found one reliable way to manage his insomnia, and even that only has a 50% success rate. All the same, he reaches for his backpack and pulls out a dog-eared notebook, then digs deeper for one of the pens buried at the bottom. Uncapping it with his teeth, Alex sets pen to paper and waits for the words to flow.

There’s a bit of a roadblock until his mind focuses on one particular topic, one that’s been eating away at him all day. Most of the conditions the court imposed on him to avoid probation were fairly reasonable – go to school, don’t catch another case, don’t AWOL. But the court-ordered apology letter to his “victim”?

Alex chews on the end of his pen, staring at a blank page of paper. He feels a lot of things about the events leading up his arrest, but sorry isn’t one of them. Even regret is a stretch, though he definitely regrets the aftermath. Probably antagonizing that cop was a bad idea. Would they have insisted on cuffing him if he had just cooperated?

Whatever. Alex has six months to get this letter right. He figures that a first draft to get his thoughts down on paper can’t hurt, and might even let his overactive mind rest for once.

_“To Whom It May Concern,”_ he writes in careful penmanship. _“The judge ordered that I write this letter of apology to atone…”_

The words flow easily after that, and he signs his letter with a flourish. He’ll show it to Abigail the next time he sees her and find out just how much editing he’ll need to do before it’s presentable to the court.

By the time Alex recaps his pen, the sky has lightened from deep black to an early morning gray. Dropping his notebook back into his backpack, Alex pulls the covers up to his chin, curling onto his side. Sleep finally finds him.

-

No one says anything about the bags under Alex’s eyes, or about how badly he needs a haircut. Martha is insistent, however, on taking him shopping for new school clothes.

“Lake Forest requires uniforms, dear. And if we get you a week’s worth, no one has to worry about doing laundry on a school night.”

“I own three week’s worth,” Lafayette says cheerfully. “And I never worry about doing laundry.” He’s tagged along on this shopping trip either to offer moral support, or to convince Martha to add to his already impressive collection. Alex suspects it’s a bit of both. Lafayette’s ability to take advantage of any given situation for his own gain is inspiring, and so far it’s never been at the detriment of Alex’s.

Running his hands over the quality material of a blazer in Lake Forest blue, Alex sneaks a glance at the price tag and sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. Martha wants to buy him a _week’s_ worth of this expensive shit?

“I really don’t mind doing laundry,” Alex lies, crafting his argument with care. Rich people like it when people like him are hardworking and helpful. They don’t understand the humiliating feeling of owing someone, of being in their debt.

“What size do you wear?” Martha asks, pulling a dress shirt from another rack and holding it up in front of Alex, trying to gauge if it will fit his skinny frame. “You’ll be able to wear something like this to more than just school. What if you have a job interview, or want to look into an internship? Always best to be prepared.”

Alex snorts. “They won’t care what I wear to the interview. They’ll just want to know if I can say, ‘do you want fries with that?’ without throwing myself into a vat of hot oil.”

Both Martha and Lafayette turn to stare at him, and Alex has to replay his words to see where he misspoke. “What? I wouldn’t _actually_ throw myself into a vat of hot oil.” Probably. There are worse ways to die, right?

“Mon ami, is working at McDonald’s all you aspire to do? Not that there is anything wrong with working there, of course,” Lafayette adds hastily.

“I—” Alex falters. “No, but—” That’s all anyone else has ever believed he was capable of. Even a 4.0 GPA isn’t worth much, coming from an underfunded public school where they don’t offer honors or AP classes, or music or arts, for that matter. He swallows, willing his cheeks to cool before the blush is obvious. He’d meant his words as a self-deprecating joke. For the most part, anyway. He’s not sure what to do with people who take him seriously. With people who don’t treat him as the butt of the joke.

“Well,” Martha says matter-of-factly, putting the topic to rest, “both of you should be focused on your education right now. Any jobs can wait until the summer, when you have more free time.”

Lafayette groans. “And how will it remain free, if we are stuck working? You would take our liberty from us, when we are in the prime of our youth?”

“Oh, lord,” Martha says, and tosses five white dress shirts in Alex’s size into the cart, along with three Lake Forest blue blazers. She bustles along, eyeing a rack of khaki slacks with the single-minded determination of gladiator facing down an opponent across the amphitheater.

Behind Martha’s back, Lafayette winks at Alex.

-

Seeing the total amount Martha is dropping on him for school clothes alone makes Alex actually want to throw himself in a vat of hot oil, so he wanders out of the store while the clerk rings her up. Lafayette trails slowly after him, staring at his phone while he walks and somehow managing not to bump into anything.

“What are you doing after this?” he asks, glancing up at Alex.

“Um,” Alex says. It’s Saturday afternoon, and an entire empty week stretches between them and the first day of the second semester. “Nothing?” he ventures.

“I want you to meet my friends,” Lafayette tells him, back to tapping away at his phone. “They are idiots. You will love them.”

Alex can’t decide if that’s a promise or a threat, but Martha joins them before he can ask any follow up questions.

“Alex, you still need some school supplies,” she says, but at the look of dread on his face, quickly adds, “but I think maybe we’ve done enough shopping for one day.” Hefting several bags, she leads them towards the parking lot.

“Ah, if we are done shopping for the day,” Lafayette says in a tone Alex already recognizes as his most persuasive, “perhaps you can drop us off at the Waffle Shack?”

“Waffle… _Shack_?” Alex questions.

“I will never understand why you boys love that place so much,” Martha says, shaking her head as they reach the car. “But I can drop you off -- if you have a ride home.”

“Yes, yes, John… ‘s father will take us home.” There’s an odd pause in the middle of Lafayette’s sentence, which he covers for by smiling brilliantly.

Loading the bags into the trunk, Martha agrees, “As long as it’s not John behind the wheel. Lord knows I love that boy, but he cannot be trusted with a vehicle.”

“Please, Martha.” Lafayette solemnly holds his hand to his heart. “I value my life.”

-

The Waffle Shack turns out to be a grease trap of a diner that fully lives up to its name, complete with worn linoleum flooring and scarred Formica tables. The dingy look is completed by dated light fixtures that hang over each booth and produce little islands of light in a sea of dreariness. It doesn’t look like the place has been renovated since the late 70s; it’s possibly been that long since anybody’s mopped. Lafayette strides right in like his name is on the deed, heading for a corner booth that’s already occupied.

Taking a deep breath, Alex follows after him, picking his way through the tangle of tables and chairs that have been stuffed into the overcrowded space.

“Why _do_ you like this place?” he asks Lafayette, trying to keep the revulsion out of his voice. Apparently rich people really do like slumming. Alex didn’t know that applied to restaurants, although that’s perhaps a generous description of the Waffle Shack. It at least smells like they serve waffles here. It also smells like they haven’t cleaned the upholstery since smoking indoors was banned, or maybe didn’t take that ban to heart.

Lafayette doesn’t answer him, but another voice cuts through the din. “Yo! Laf, bro, thank god you’re here. I need a witness.”

Alex catches up to Lafayette in time to hear his answering laugh. “I am not sure I want to witness whatever it is that you and Herc have gotten up to.” He’s standing in front of the booth, blocking Alex’s view, and Alex edges a little to the side to peer out from behind his shoulder.

“Man, I’m just trying to win this bet,” says the lighter skinned of the two boys sitting in the booth. His short, dark hair curls a little over his forehead, and he’s got one hand wrapped around what appears to be a dented metal shot glass. Alex frowns, trying to puzzle the scene out. Neither boy looks any older than they are, which is well below the legal drinking age.

“Trying to cheat, you mean,” the other boy – Herc? -- says, leaning back and stretching one arm out along the top of the booth. He’s wearing a beanie that’s pulled low, almost to his eyebrows, and looks even more at home here than Laf.

Banging his fist loudly on the table – no one else in the diner seems to care, or even notice – the first boy says, “You fucking wish, bro.”

Lafayette drops down onto the seat, scooting in on the side of the beanie-wearing boy. “Alex and I will judge, but only on the condition that our judgment is final.”

Alex finds himself center stage again as everyone turns to look expectantly at him.

“Uh. Hi,” he says, rubbing a hand awkwardly over the back of his neck.

Reaching across the table, Lafayette slaps at the curly-haired boy’s arm. “John, move over! You would make Alex just stand there?”

“Easy, mama bear,” John says, but moves over, leaving more than enough room for Alex to slide in next to him. Up close, John’s attempts at facial hair are more obvious, though he hasn’t managed much more than dark peach fuzz above his lip. His freckles, though, are a raving success, particularly the dense splatter across the bridge of his nose.

“Alex,” Lafayette announces grandly, “these are my idiot friends, John and Hercules.”

“I resent that,” John objects, not sounding particularly offended.

“John and Hercules, this is my brilliant foster brother, Alex,” he continues as if John hasn’t spoken.

“Why does he get to be brilliant?” Hercules asks in the same tone as someone might ask if it’s going to rain later.

Their protests are token at best, but it doesn’t stop Lafayette from smiling benevolently and asking, “Herc, tell me, how much money have you bet John to take a shot of mint syrup?”

Herc dips his chin in acknowledgment. “Point taken. But in my defense, I’m only coughing up five bucks.”

“In _my_ defense,” John says, and now that Lafayette has mentioned it, that’s definitely the strong odor of mint coming from the metal shot glass John’s still clutching, “I can hardly say no to a challenge.”

“It’s a matter of honor,” Alex agrees, and John rewards him with a sudden, bright smile that makes his nose scrunch up.

“ _Exactly_. You get it! He gets it,” he repeats to the table at large.

“I told you he was brilliant,” Lafayette says, trying to catch Alex’s eye. Alex is far too busy studying the truly astonishing array of syrup flavors on display in the middle of the table to look at Lafayette, or acknowledge Lafayette’s kind efforts to include him. His hands are sweating again, and he rubs them against his thighs under the table.

As if he senses Alex’s discomfort, Lafayette swiftly adds, “I think we need to lift the meat, however, before John takes his shot.”

There’s a moment of contemplative silence. Alex is the first to get it, snapping his fingers. “Raise the _stakes_ , you mean.”

“Ohhhh,” John breathes, shooting Alex an appreciative look. Hercules just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that Alex doesn’t catch.

Lafayette must hear it, but he doesn’t bat an eye. “That’s what I said, non?” In that same nonchalant tone, but a very clear twinkle in his eye, he continues, “I will bet _ten_ dollars that John gags before he can swallow all of it.”

John lets his head drop down until it hits the table with an audible thunk. “ _Bro_.”

“That’s what she said,” Hercules says with a straight face.

Lafayette smiles, the picture of innocence. “What?”

Without lifting his head, John says, “If you’re betting, then you can’t judge too.” It comes out a little muffled against the table.

“Alex will judge.” Lafayette smacks his fist on the table with the authority of a judge banging a gavel. “He is both fair and just.”

“Those mean the same thing,” Alex points out without thinking. He should’ve just said yes. He has no money of his own to offer up for a bet; judging is an easy way to avoid the uncomfortable landmines of that particular topic.

John grins up at him, one cheek still pressed to the table. The lighting in this place isn’t flattering for anyone, but it does somehow bring out the green in John’s hazel eyes.

“You’ll be fair and just to me, won’t you?” he asks, blinking up at Alex. “I don’t care about the money. It’s my honor that’s at stake.”

Lafayette huffs, clearly unimpressed. “Fair and just means that you do not get any special treatment.”

“Quit stalling and take your shot,” Hercules orders.

Slowly sitting up, John pulls the shot glass of syrup closer, looking down at it dubiously. The viscous, deep green contents do not look particularly appetizing.

“You know, I don’t think the terms are fair,” John says, still eyeing the shot glass. “I mean, five bucks for a shot of blueberry syrup? Sure, that’s a given. But _mint_?”

Hercules groans. “Laurens, so help me god—”

“Oh hey, look what the cat dragged in,” John says suddenly, looking up and over Lafayette’s shoulder. “If it isn’t Aaron Burr.”

Alex doesn’t know who Aaron Burr is, but the name has an instant, noticeable effect on the group as they all turn to face a boy hovering just outside their booth.

“You boys still travel in a pack, I see,” says the boy who must be Aaron Burr. He meets Alex’s eye without hesitation. Alex can’t get a read on him; Burr’s expression is guarded, giving nothing away. “And you’ve been recruiting.”

“Hey Burr,” John says with an almost gleeful smile. He leans forward, pressing into Alex’s space until his elbow is touching Alex’s side. Alex doesn’t know if he should shift away or let it happen. All of John’s focus is on Burr, so Alex cautiously stays still, aware of every inch of John’s arm that rubs along his ribcage with each shallow breath he takes. “I hear you’re back with Theo. Has she actually broken up with her other boyfriend this time?”

Burr smiles blandly. “How thoughtful of you to ask. While we’re on the topic, how’s your love life?”

John hoots with laughter. “Fuck off, man.”

With a sloppy salute, Burr turns and walks off. Alex is more preoccupied with the way John still hasn’t shifted away. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him for such an extended period, excluding the guards in the detention center during pat downs. John is seconds away from demolishing that record.

Alex licks his lips. His tongue is dry. “Is Burr, uh, a friend of yours?”

“He’s the worst,” Lafayette says with a truly dramatic eyeroll.  

Hercules snorts. “If he ran for president, his slogan would be ‘Beige: it’s for everyone.’”

“Just once I’d love to actually piss him off,” John adds wistfully. He finally sits up straight, and Alex lets out a shaky breath, covering it with a quick cough.

He opens his mouth before anyone can notice, or worse, comment. “So about this shot…”

Fingers curling around the shot glass, John says, “Ah, fuck it,” and lifts it to his lips, knocking back the contents. They all watch as his throat bobs a few times as he swallows frantically, his face screwed up in disgust, before he finally sticks out his tongue, presenting it to Alex.

There are traces of green staining the back of it, but, “he’s swallowed everything,” Alex confirms, fairly and justly.

“Ha! Pay up, haters,” John says, stealing the glass of ice water sitting in front of Hercules and gulping down half of it.

“That’s mine, asshole,” Hercules complains.

“I’ll get you another one, sweetheart,” John croons at him, collecting his money from both Hercules and Lafayette. Alex’s heart thumps, even though John wasn’t addressing him. Turning towards Alex, John asks, “You hungry, man?”

Alex shakes his head, thinking about the contents of his wallet. An expired bus pass, his old school ID, and an overused library card. Maybe a bit of change, if he’s lucky.  “No, I’m good with just water.” If anyone actually comes around to take their order. Maybe all this place has to offer is strange syrup flavors. That can’t be right though; Hercules’ drink had to come from somewhere. Alex’s stomach chooses that opportunity to growl loudly, and John’s eyes scrunch nearly closed with the force of his smile.

“No way. I’d be $15 poorer without you, and you’ve never even had a Waffle Shack waffle.” He leans into Alex’s space again, like that’s a thing you do with people you’ve just met. Voice low, he tells Alex, “It’ll blow your mind, dude.”

Alex can smell the strange mix of sickly sweet and mint on John’s breath.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, caving easily, and tries not to think about how cold his side feels when John straightens up again, back into his own space.

It’s strange how alone Alex can feel in a crowded diner, but the desperation to belong is familiar.

He’s just never wanted it this badly before.

 

* * *

 

 

> _To Whom It May Concern:_
> 
> _The judge ordered that I write this letter of apology to atone for my “crimes.” It is only at the advice of my attorney that I even admit to a “crime” taking place, but this admittance is a legal strategy, not a sincere confession. What do I have to confess to? I know what I said to instigate the situation was not kind. I know what I said was inflammatory. I know what I said was true, and I’m not sorry for it. I meant every word, just like Samuel meant to punch me in the jaw. Will I be receiving a court-ordered apology letter from him?_
> 
> _I am sorry for the overworked, underpaid staff at the group home who watched the fight instead of breaking it up before we broke the TV, and then decided it was time to call the cops. I know they signed up to work with kids like me and Samuel, but probably only because they have bills to pay. I’m sorry they picked this particular minimum wage job to pay those bills. I’m sorry they got scheduled for third shift and messed up their sleep schedules. I’m sorry they could choose to leave at any time, and chose not to. I’m sorry I didn’t get that choice._
> 
> _I’m not sorry I punched Samuel back. That motherfucker deserved it._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _A. Ham_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don’t speak french. hope my hastily translated/googled phrases make sense xoxo


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he looked at me like i was stupid, i'm not stupid

Alex picks at his dinner the night before school starts, forcing himself to choke down a bite every time he catches one of the Washingtons’ glances lingering on him. It’s not even greasy (George cooked, and Laf was right – the man knows his way around a kitchen), but Alex’s stomach still hurts when he crawls into bed later, curling onto his side.

His closet door is open a crack, just enough for Alex to make out the shadowy Lake Forest blue of his freshly washed and pressed blazers. The only other occupants of the closet are a couple pairs of shoes: the nice ones Martha bought him for school, not yet broken into, and the ratty set with worn soles threatening to fall apart the next time he wears them. The rest of Alex’s clothing fits easily into the chest of drawers across from his bed with more than a few drawers to spare.

Alex rolls over on soft sheets, facing the red glare of the alarm clock instead. The bedside table is as barren as both the closet and the dresser, his shitty phone with cracks splintering the screen plugged into the charger and resting on the glossy wooden surface the only sign someone lives in this room.

He’s seen the disarray of Laf’s room; the mess and clutter, the closet bursting at the seams. What’s it like to occupy a space where everything is yours? Where everything feels like home?

In the least surprising turn of events, Alex can’t sleep. He gives up trying fairly quickly, throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed to check his backpack one last time. Not his old backpack with indiscriminate stains and a hole at the bottom just big enough for all his pens to fall through, but the new one, full of expensive school supplies and with a working zipper. He reaches in, running his fingers almost reverently over the glossy cover of a notebook, the tapered points of newly sharpened pencils.

His fingertips come away smudged with lead, and it’s the first thing tonight that feels normal. Alex isn’t meant for nice things. This is a fine charade the Washingtons have helped him create, but that’s all it is. It won’t be hard for people to see through it. Just look at his stained fingers, already giving him away.

His stomach really hurts now, so Alex pushes to his feet and eases his door open, tiptoeing down the dark hall to the bathroom. He washes his hands with soap and warm water until his skin is clean again, then dries them on the Washingtons’ pristine towels. A hot shower might feel good, but it’s late and he doesn’t want to wake anyone up. Maybe a glass of water will help.

Carefully, Alex makes his way back through the hall and then down the stairs, hugging the railing to keep the steps from creaking under his weight. The Washingtons have one of those fancy fridges with the water spout built into the door, and Alex watches as his glass slowly fills to the rim, not letting his eyes wander to the disorderly collection of photos still taped to the fridge.

He sits on one of the stools that line one side of the island in the middle of the kitchen to drink his water, kicking his feet like a little kid because he can’t sit still. It’s quieter than pacing, at least. They hated the way he would pace in the group home. There was something soothing in the rhythm of it though, even if it made him feel like a zoo animal, trapped in a cage with no way out.

Well, here’s his way out. Why does he feel sick about it?

He’s still nursing the last of his water when the hall light clicks on, spilling a bar of gold through the kitchen doorway that reaches all the way to Alex’s toes. Alex sits up from his slouch, fingers tightening around his glass. “Hello?” he calls softly.

“Oh, shit,” Lafayette says around a yawn, shuffling into the kitchen. “What are you doing awake at this hour, mon ami?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Alex points out.

Lafayette smiles sleepily. “Touché.” He doesn’t actually answer Alex’s question, but walks straight to the fridge to pull out a container of leftovers, which is answer enough. Without bothering to heat it up, Lafayette grabs a fork from the silverware drawer and digs in, shoveling cold fettucine into his mouth.

“That’s disgusting,” Alex says with admiration.

“ _You’re_ disgusting,” Laf shoots back lazily around a mouthful of pasta.

Alex freezes for a second. Lafayette’s kidding, obviously he’s kidding. He’s treating Alex like he would treat John or Hercules. Like a friend. And anyway, it’s a pathetically weak insult if he’s serious. Before Alex can tell himself to act like a normal fucking human though, Lafayatte’s wide eyes find his and he’s swallowing quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I am joking, of course. Sorry, mon cher, I am half asleep.”

Alex shakes his head, his feet swinging even more rapidly, his heels hitting the metal rung of the stool with each kick. “No, sorry man, I’m just – spacing out, I guess.”

Slowly, Lafayette lowers his fork. Neither one of them has bothered to turn on the kitchen light, but it’s still easy enough to make out the bridge of Lafayette’s nose and the curve of his cheek in the light from the hallway. He watches Alex for a long moment, and Alex forces his legs to still, pressing the arch of his feet into the metal rung to ground himself.

“You are nervous about tomorrow,” Lafayette guesses, which is close enough.

“I just don’t want to fuck up,” Alex tells him. The first day of school, this placement with the Washingtons, the rest of his life.

Lafayette doesn’t reassure him that he won’t, which Alex appreciates. Honesty is a rare and valuable currency. He does continue to study Alex with a thoughtful expression, until Alex’s feet start kicking again without his permission.

“I do not think you give yourself enough credit, ma petite crevette,” he says at last, swirling his fork through the cold fettucine with a wet squelch. “It is human to make mistakes, non? No one is perfect. But your heart is – what is the word?”

Alex presses the glass to his mouth, gulping down the last of his water.

“True,” Lafayette decides at last. “If you stay true, all is forgivable.”

Pushing to his feet, Alex circles the island to reach the sink, setting his empty glass down. “I should really get back to bed.”

Lafayette reaches out with his free hand, circling his fingers around Alex’s thin wrist and squeezing gently. “Sleep well, Alex.”

“You too,” he manages, escaping into the bright hall.

-

Alex sleeps like shit, and every time he wakes up, he remembers the warmth of Laf’s fingers against his wrist, of John’s arm pressed to his side.

He remembers a cool hand brushing damp hair from his eyes, his forehead hot with fever.

Alex remembers a lot of things he wishes he could forget.

-

Alex’s Lake Forest blue blazer is stiff and itchy, and he can’t stop fidgeting with his tie as they approach the looming school building, a daunting brick temple of education. George has taken the morning off of work, rearranging his busy schedule to personally ensure that Alex is registered and enrolled in all the correct classes.

“You really didn’t have to,” Alex mumbles to George’s broad back for the fifth time. George stopped arguing with him after the third, and doesn’t bother responding now.

They’re early, so there are only a few students already in the halls. All of them stare at him. Alex isn’t sure if it’s because new faces are rare halfway through the school year, or because of his less than subtle escort. Do they all know he’s the Washingtons’ new foster kid?

George holds the door for him when they reach the main office, and Alex ducks inside, curling his fingers over his clammy palms and shoving them in his pockets. Lafayette gave him a sympathetic look at breakfast when George announced his intention to take Alex to school for his first day, but still drove separately to pick up Hercules.

“You will eat with us at lunch,” Laf promised. “And I’ll take us home after school. I am not so bad a driver as John. Your life will be in good hands.”

Alex wishes Lafayette were here now with an easy joke or a quick smile, anything to distract him from how uncomfortable he feels in his own skin.

At least they don’t have to wait. Being a senator is not without its perks, and he and George are ushered into a tastefully decorated office as soon as George murmurs his name to the receptionist.

“You must be Mr. Hamilton,” the guidance counselor greets him warmly, gesturing for Alex to take a seat in a straight-backed leather chair. Alex perches on the edge of it while George takes the chair next to him, sitting back comfortably.

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Alex says in his most respectful tone, and the counselor’s already welcoming expression softens further. Her desk is free of clutter, but there is a gold lacquered name plate with sleek black letters that spell out _ELIZABETH ROSS, GUIDANCE COUNSELOR._

“Senator Washington has already provided us with some of your writing samples,” she tells him. “You’re a very promising young man, Mr. Hamilton.”

Alex waits for the ‘but,’ inevitably followed by her concern with his suspension record or his issues with authority or the many other shortcomings he was promised would be on his permanent record. When it doesn’t come, he stutters to fill the silence. “I – thanks?”

He glances at George, but he’s focused intently on Ms. Ross, leaning forward a bit in his seat. “I presume you’ve drafted a schedule based on Alex’s transcripts?” Without turning his head, George reaches out a hand and drops it heavily onto Alex’s shoulder. “I’m not sure what schools Alex has in mind, but we want to ensure he’s in all the recommended courses so that his options are open.”

“Of course,” Ms. Ross says, fingers clacking on her keyboard as she pulls up his schedule. “Now, Alex, are you interested in colleges here in Virginia, or a more expansive geographical area? Many of our alumni have gone onto some very prestigious schools, and while the admission requirements are often similar, we’ll want to ensure that your both courses and extracurricular activities make you a competitive candidate.”

Alex’s mouth is a little dry, and he licks his lips. They’re talking about college like it’s a forgone conclusion for him – like his options aren’t limited to _if_ he gets in, but where.

George gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and Alex takes a steadying breath. “I’ve always wanted to go to Columbia,” he confesses aloud for the first time, digging his nails into his thighs to keep them still.

No one laughs at him, or looks at him with pity, or tells him it would be smart to consider a safety school because his chances at getting in at an Ivy League one just aren’t that good. “An excellent choice,” Ms. Ross says. “What major are you interested in?”

“Law,” Alex says immediately.

Ms. Ross smiles. Her red lips perfectly match her nails. “We’ll need to figure out an optimal schedule for your senior year, but I think your current courses will put you in a good position for this year. Now. Let’s talk extracurriculars.”

-

Alex emerges from Ms. Ross’s office with a wrinkled class schedule clutched in his sweat-damp hands and a slight headache.

“You’ll be okay getting to your first class?”  George asks him, eyebrows furrowed in his customary look of concern.

“Yes,” Alex reassures him, flipping over his schedule to show the handy map printed on the backside. He doesn’t tell George he’d rather get lost than have a US Senator walk him to class, but maybe George understands, because he simply nods at Alex and wishes him luck before heading back towards the main doors.

Alex, for his part, manages to hold it together most of the morning with minimal awkwardness and no verbal blunders. Herc is in his first period calculus class and saves him a seat in the back, and Alex pretends he’s used to that sort of thing, like his knees aren’t a little weak with relief that he doesn’t have to make it through the entire day alone. He even gets used to the stiffness of his blazer, and barely notices how it restricts his movement by second period. It’s shaping up to be an okay day, which would far surpass his expectations.

Then he gets to third period AP Gov.

There’s only one familiar face in the steadily filling classroom. Burr offers him a sardonic wave from across the room, which Alex returns in kind before settling into an empty seat near the door.

The din of chatter doesn’t stop when the bell rings, but the gov teacher – Mr. Jay, according to Alex’s now smudged and creased schedule – eventually quiets them down.

“Alright class. You’ve had all of break to chitchat. Are you all ready to get back to learning?”

There’s no immediate response, which doesn’t seem to daunt Mr. Jay in the slightest. He rubs his hands together, surveying the class. “Okay. Current Events Monday. Who’s got a topic?”

Another awkward silence has Mr. Jay’s eyebrows rising. “Bueller? Anyone? Don’t tell me not one of you picked up a newspaper the entire week you had off school.”

Alex glances around the room, gauging the risk of raising his hand to offer up a topic without knowing what exactly Current Events Monday entails, but a boy sitting near the back of the room beats him to the punch.

“Yeah, I got a current event,” he says with a wide smirk that reminds Alex a little of Lafayette’s, only knife-edged.

“Mr. Jefferson. Please, enlighten us.”

Sitting back in a lazy sprawl, Jefferson says, “The immigration reform bill passed in the House last week, but it will probably be gridlocked on the Senate floor. People are already protesting, saying that if it passes, it will open our borders to an unprecedented amount of immigration, which will put a strain on the national budget.”

Alex’s mouth is open before his brain can catch up. “Hold up. Are we not a country of immigrants? What does ‘unprecedented’ even mean? Did you fail U.S. history?”

“Ah, Mr…. Hamilton, is it?” Mr. Jay interjects. Alex snaps his jaw shut. “We welcome debate in this class, but please, keep it civil.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex grinds out. He can’t help flicking his gaze towards the back of the classroom, where Jefferson is watching him with open curiosity.

“I got an ‘A,’ actually,” he drawls, smile still sharp enough to cut. “Which is why I know there’s a difference between early settlers fleeing tyranny and working to build a new country founded on the ideals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and refugees who can’t even speak our language who would only be a burden on our already taxed welfare systems. Why should we open our door to them, when there are children on our streets starving?”

“That’s a false equivalency,” Alex says, turning almost completely around in his chair to face Jefferson. “Don’t turn this debate into an argument about gatekeeping who has access to welfare. It’s not about who is or isn’t worthy of aid – which, by the way, if you’re saying non-English speakers _aren’t_ worthy is so xenophobic, I don’t know how you can look yourself in mirror—”

Mr. Jay clears his throat. “Mr. Hamilton—”

“—it’s about the fact that this reform is specific to refugees,” Alex quickly adds. “Refugees in countries that _we_ destabilized by providing funds or weapons, by declaring war for bullsh—for reasons that turned out to be flimsy excuses. If we can find the money to build bombs and destroy nations, we can find the money to offer the people whose lives we’ve destroyed life, liberty, and the chance _they_ deserve to pursue happiness.”

Jefferson snorts derisively. “Oh, of course, I’m sure there are millions of dollars in the national budget just sitting around, waiting to be allocated to a good cause. It’s easy to be idealistic, but the reality is--”

“The reality is you’re sitting there debating this like real people aren’t dying while a bunch of politicians try decide if their lives are worth the price.”

Jefferson’s smile flickers at the ice in Alex’s voice. “My god, man. I’m not personally murdering people, alright?”

“But you are aiding and abetting,” Alex retorts.

“Okay,” Mr. Jay cuts in before there’s actual bloodshed. A dark-skinned boy sitting next to Jefferson nudges his arm, leaning in to whisper something to him that makes Jefferson’s hackles lower slightly, though his glare remains dark. “Well, that was certainly a rousing debate, but we do have a lesson to get through before the end of class, so let’s just agree to disagree, shall we, gentlemen?”

Neither Alex nor Jefferson responds, and Mr. Jay wearily asks the class to open their books to chapter twelve.

-

Alex is still heated after class, and he shakes off the hand that grabs his arm with more force that is probably needed.

“Hey, chill out, man. I was just trying to get your attention,” Burr says, releasing Alex.

Alex rubs a hand over his face, shifting to the edge of the hallway as it fills with students; a sea of Lake Forest blue flowing out of the classrooms and flooding the hall. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m still a little fired up.”

“Yeah, about that.” Burr’s face is infuriatingly neutral. “Free word of advice? Don’t talk so much. You’re going to put a target on your back if you shoot off at the mouth like that.”

Alex stares at him, incredulous. “Are you for real?”

Burr holds out his hands, palms up. “Hey man, I’m just trying to help. Thomas has a lot of influence here. It’s not smart to get on his bad side.”

“Jefferson can choke on his silver spoon, for all I care,” Alex tells Burr, every word crisply enunciated. “I’m never not going to stand up for what I believe in.”

Burr’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker. “Suit yourself.”

-

Fourth period is less eventful, and Alex’s stomach is growling by the end of it. The few bites of cereal he managed at breakfast were hard to get down at the time, but his debate with Jefferson has left him with an appetite.

Lafayette meets him at the door of the cafeteria, looking Alex over with a critical eye. “I see you have survived the morning.”

“Barely,” Alex mutters, though that’s not really true. He held his own, didn’t he?

Lightly resting one hand on the small of Alex’s back, Lafayette steers him through the doors into the cafeteria, past tables already crowded with students and towards the back where the kitchen is.

“You have your student ID, yes?” Lafayette checks, glancing back at him.

Alex pats his back pocket where his wallet is tucked away. “Wouldn’t dream of being caught without it.”

“You mock,” Lafayette says loftily. “But which one of us will be laughing when you have no lunch?” In dramatic undertone, he adds, “No one is more frugal than the rich, mon ami. Here, where the tuition is so much, they let the children starve if they cannot pay.”

“If they lose their ID, you mean.” Alex read the brochure. Lunch is included in the tuition cost, but at a strict one lunch per student quota.

Lafayette nods in acknowledgement, grabbing a tray off the stack, along with a bundle of silverware wrapped neatly in Lake Forest blue cloth. Alex will say this for Lake Forest; they are dedicated to their aesthetic. “Of course,” Lafayette muses, still in that same conspiratorial tone, “if you have fingers of glue…”

Grabbing his own tray and silverware, Alex grins. “Sticky fingers?”

Aiming his index finger at Alex, Lafayette cocks his thumb. “Précisément.”

Alex laughs. “Eat the rich.”

“Or at least steal their bread,” Lafayette agrees.

Alex sticks close to Lafayette’s elbow as they navigate the kitchen. There are two salad bars – one is vegan, Lafayette explains, and Alex can’t find it within himself to ask what makes the other one _not_ vegan – as well as a taco bar, pasta bar, dessert bar, and a grill. It’s a far cry from the typical wilted lettuce and single chicken patty on a bun Alex was used to in public school.

He does slip a bread roll into his pocket when no one is paying attention, readjusting his blazer to cover the slight bulge. The kick of adrenaline is almost as rewarding as the satisfaction of his small rebellion. It makes him feel alive.

Alex follows Lafayette through the cashier line, balancing his teeming plate on his tray, along with his silverware and a bottled water. Lafayette checks just once to make sure Alex is behind him before winding his way through the tables, clearly headed for some specific destination. The cafeteria is crowded, a steady din of noise and movement, and Alex doesn’t linger on the feeling of relief he gets when Laf takes them to a table near the edge of the room.

John and Hercules are already there with their own trays of food, and no one says anything when Alex picks a chair that puts his back to the wall. John does turn his whole body to face Alex, though, barely finishing chewing before he talks.

“Bro. I heard you and Jefferson got into it in Gov.”

Alex examines his (non-vegan) salad, spreading the dressing more evenly over the lettuce with careful strokes of his fork. “How? I had Gov barely an hour ago.”

“The only thing that spreads faster than rumors in this school is STD’s,” John says dismissively, shoving another bite of taco into his mouth.

Across the table, Hercules snorts into his milk, white liquid bubbling. “And you know that from personal experience, do you?” he asks, wiping the back of his wrist over his mouth.

John clicks his tongue. “Man, forget you.”

“Hey,” Lafayette says brightly. “That is a good topic for the paper, non? The impact of abstinence-only sex ed on our, ah, promiscuous student body.”

“Don’t you have to write what you know, though?” Hercules asks.

Lafayette smiles innocently. “Sure. John knows all about abstinence.”

“Okay, fuck both of you,” John says. Ground beef spills out of his taco as he brings it to his mouth this time, and he shovels it back into the shell with his fingers, managing to flip Lafayette off at the same time.

“You’d double your experience,” Alex observes. John shoots him a betrayed look while Laf and Herc dissolve into laughter. Herc actually reaches across the table to high-five him, which has never happened to Alex before.

“Sorry,” Alex tells John, watching as John’s throat works as he swallows. “Low-hanging fruit, and all.”

“Yeah, you’re a goddamn comedian,” John says, but he doesn’t sound all that upset. His tongue darts out to lick a bit of sour cream off his bottom lip. Washing down his taco with a swig of water, he continues, “For the record, I’ve totally had sex before.”

Alex chokes. “I – did not need to know that.”

“I don’t have any STD’s either,” John adds. “Just so you know.”

Laughing a little desperately, Alex asks, “You use that line on all the girls?”

John winks. “I’m just setting the record straight, man. I can’t have you believing these clowns.” Lafayette and Hercules have moved onto less-loaded topics, paying him and John no mind as they loudly debate – Alex can’t actually tell what they’re debating.

“Laf said something about the paper?” Alex offers, hoping John will accept his change in subject.

Nodding, John says, “Yeah, the student paper. I’m on the staff.”

“Really?” Alex bounces a little in his seat before he can remind himself to calm down and act like a normal person. “I wrote for the student paper at my old school. Ms. Ross said they might be able to make an exception for me to join even though it’s the 2nd semester.”

John’s nose-scrunching smile is better than Alex remembered. “That’s sick, bro! We can meet up after school and I’ll show you where it is.”

“Sounds good,” Alex agrees, shoveling a forkful of salad into his mouth to keep it from running and ruining everything. Another thought occurs to him, and he abruptly swallows his half-chewed bite, wincing as it catches in his throat. “Oh, but Laf’s my ride home, and he’s not staying after school.”

“It’s fine, bro. I can take you home.”

At the look on Alex’s face, John huffs and adds, “You can’t believe everything out of Lafayette’s mouth. I’m a perfectly fine driver.”

Alex opts to shove an even bigger forkful of salad into his mouth rather than answer.

-

It turns out that John’s in his last class of the day, which makes meeting up to walk to the computer lab allocated to the student newspaper easy.

“We usually have a quick check-in meeting at the beginning,” John explains as they reach the room. Half the space is taken up with a few rows of computers, and the other half more open with a handful of tables and chairs in a loose semi-circle around a large white board. “Our paper’s biweekly, so things tend to get a little crazier the second week when the print deadline gets closer.”

“I work better under pressure,” Alex reassures him.

The number of students involved in the paper is nearly double than at Alex’s old school, and it’s readily apparent who the leader is.

“Who’s this?” asks a darker-skinned girl with glossy black curls pulled back from her face. Her eyes are very intense. Alex likes her immediately.

“Angelica. This is Alex,” John says, sliding an arm over Alex’s shoulders. “Ms. Ross wants him to join the paper.”

Angelica’s bright eyes flick up and down, from Alex’s toes back to the top of his head. He’s sure she’s made a snap judgment, but her face doesn’t betray whatever she thinks of him. “Well, that’s not Ms. Ross’s call, is it?”

John presses his free hand to his heart, still hanging off Alex. “Angie. We’re down a reporter anyway since Jimmy moved away, and I’m vouching for him. Give him a shot.”

“I have experience,” Alex tells her. “And I’m not afraid of a challenge.”

It earns him a brief but knowing smile. “You’re on probation,” she decides. “I’ll make a final determination after I see what you can write.”

Angelica quiets the group with a lot more efficiency than Mr. Jay, deftly restoring order to the room. She’s quick but thorough, checking in with each department for an update and taking relevant notes on the whiteboard with neat writing.

Alex sits by John at the back, and doesn’t miss the curious glances he gets. One girl in particular – pretty, olive-skinned, hair as dark as Angelica’s but falling in a straight, shiny sheet down her back – can’t seem to help herself, eyes darting towards Alex again and again.

Alex shifts closer to John. “Who’s that?” he whispers, nodding at the girl.

Following his gaze, John’s eyes land on the girl. She quickly looks away again. “Off limits,” John whispers back, elbowing Alex playfully in the side.

Angelica calls an end to the meeting, and everyone disperses to different corners of the room, talking in huddled groups or planting themselves in front of a computer to start feverishly writing.

Off Limits wastes no time seeking them out, making her way to the back of the room while a less enthusiastic Angelica trails after her.

“Hi,” she says, stopping in front of Alex. “My sister says you’re going to join the paper.”

“Sister?” Alex repeats.

“I said he’s on probation, Eliza,” Angelica cuts in from behind Eliza’s shoulder.

“You’re new here, right? Where are you from?” Eliza asks, like Angelica never spoke.

Alex runs a hand over his hair, trying to smooth back any stray hairs. “Unimportant. I’m actually more interested in knowing what I have to do to impress your sister enough to get an article in the paper.” He smiles his most charming smile. Eliza visibly melts.

Angelica is a little cooler. Crossing her arms over her chest, she asks, “You have a topic in mind?”

Alex nods in confirmation. “I do.”

Angelica bares her teeth in what might be a smile on any other girl’s face. “Submit it to me, and I’ll pass it along to the faculty for final approval if it’s any good.”

“You’ll have it tomorrow,” Alex promises, and watches as Angelica forcibly steers Eliza away.

“Man, you’re playing with fire,” John tells him after the girls have retreated, a shit-eating grin on his face. “The Schuyler sisters are dangerous.”

Alex has too much to lose to even consider it. But still – “A little flirting never hurt anyone.”

John laughs. “Famous last words, bro.”

-

Students start to trickle out the door after about an hour. Alex catches one last lingering look from Eliza as he and John make their escape, John tossing his keys up and catching them in the palm of his hand with a series of rhythmic _thwaps_.

The keys turn out to belong to a sleek black BMW. Alex raises his eyebrows as John unlocks the car with a beep.

“What? It was a gift from my dad.”

“For what occasion?” Alex asks, running his fingers cautiously over the dash. There isn’t a speck of dust on the interior.

John makes a face, sliding the key in the ignition and starting the car with a quiet growl. “Maybe gift isn’t the right word. I think it was more of a bribe for my love.”

Alex digests that. “Did it work?”

Shoving the gearshift into reverse, John backs the car out of its spot with enough speed that Alex has to catch himself on the dash, smudging it up with fingerprints. “You tell me,” he says, peeling out of the parking lot with a screech of tires.

“I’m going to guess no,” Alex says when he can catch his breath again, and John laughs, easing the car to a stop at a red light.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just hard to drive slow when you have this much horsepower under the hood, y’know? I promise I’ll get you home safe.” He shoots Alex a sideways glance. “My dad may not be one of them, but I do care about _some_ things.”

Alex doesn’t ask him to specify, and John keeps his promise, leaving Alex safely on the Washingtons’ doorstep.

 

* * *

 

 

 

> [jefferson_is_a_rat_bastard.doc]
> 
> **UNTITLED – _DRAFT_**
> 
> By A. Hamilton
> 
> _“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,”_ but only if they come from pre-approved nations and meet our specified requirements to ensure smooth assimilation and optimum productivity. In fact, you can keep your tired, and your poor, and you can definitely keep your oppressed. America is the land of the free, but only for those in the budget.
> 
> The Statue of Liberty, along with her inspiring inscription, has always been a symbol of freedom, a gift from our sister nation when America and France joined together against tyranny. If the immigration bill languishing on the Senate floor fails to pass, it will become a symbol of irony. America has a long and ugly history of mistreating immigrants, and this bill is the first step towards repairing the damage that’s been done, of cleaning up an insidious stain that has haunted our nation for centuries…

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s been a long time since i took AP gov. i had to watch the school house rock vid about becoming a bill to keep this story somewhat accurate, though the immigration bill is made up. i was also never on the school newspaper so ~handwave~ lets just take this story with a big 'ol grain of salt because wikihow can only get you so far.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> man, the man is non-stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for descriptions of a panic attack and a minor injury/blood mentions.

Alex is up half the night writing, pen scratching furiously on paper until his wrist hurts and his eyelids scrape roughly with each heavy blink. He falls into a fitful sleep well after midnight, and the blare of his alarm in the morning doesn’t immediately wake him, but instead infiltrates his dream, twisting into a warning of something much more terrifying than another day of school.

His skin is coated in a cold sweat by the time he’s fully conscious. A hot shower helps with that problem, but can’t chase the lingering memory of his nightmare.

Alex throws himself into his work instead, blowing off lunch to go to the school library to type up his chicken scratch on one of the computers free for students to use. As an afterthought, he pulls out his phone to send Lafayette a quick text.

**Sry cant make lunch. Working on article for the paper.**

Lafayette’s reply buzzes through almost immediately.

**You are skin and bones already. You will waste away!!!**

His phone lights up with two more texts before Alex can even unlock it.

**John is also worried. He blames himself for your death.**

**Can u live with John’s guilt on your conscience?**

On the monitor, the cursor blinks enticingly at Alex. With a sigh, he swipes his thumb over the lock screen, ignoring the familiar rough edges of his busted screen.

**Not dead yet. Steal me some bread.**

Alex flips his phone upside down this time so it can’t distract him, and in a burst of focus, gets his introduction and most of his argument into a generally coherent string of words. He’ll need to finish off his final few points and tie it all up with a conclusion, but with everything sketched out already in his notebook, he should be able to finish up after school in time to turn it into Angelica.

His stomach growls as he’s saving his draft, and Alex realizes with surprise that he’s hungry. He frowns. He hates when his actions have consequences, especially ones he should have seen coming.

Logging off the computer, he grabs for his phone and flips it back over to a string of texts from both Laf and an unknown number. He reads Laf’s messages first.

**Do you not know how bread stealing ends for the French mon ami? Even if you are a starving orphan!**

**John says he can steal you more than bread**

**Herc has challenged him to steal a cheeseburger**

**Look what you have done u turned our sweet john to a life of crime. Are u proud?**

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who the texts from the unknown number are from.

**Yo I got you a cheeseburger lol**

**You want fries with that babygirl?** 😂 😂 

Alex gets a sudden and severe case of heartburn, which is weird considering he hasn’t eaten anything since his bowl of cereal at breakfast. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth, he taps out a careful reply to John, ignoring Laf’s texts completely.

**If you steal me some ketchup to go with the fries I’ll be yours forever**

He presses send before he can overthink his response and if it fits with the weird sense of humor his new friends seem to have, then flees to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Shockingly, it doesn’t help his heartburn at all.

-

John finds him just outside his 5th period class about 30 seconds before the bell is set to ring.

“I don’t have any ketchup,” he says, sounding almost apologetic as he pulls a tinfoil wrapped cheeseburger from his blazer pocket. “But I actually couldn’t figure out how to smuggle fries, so I hope this is fine.”

Alex’s eyes bulge. “You really stole me a cheeseburger?”

“Uh, _yeah_. You wouldn’t have missed lunch if it weren’t for me dragging you to the meeting for the paper yesterday.” John shakes his head, looking at Alex as if he’s a cute but naughty puppy. “Angelica totally would’ve been cool with it if you hadn’t gotten your article done today, you know.”

“I can get a little… carried away sometimes,” Alex allows, accepting the cheeseburger from John. It’s still warm, and the foil crinkles in his hand.

“Well, you better be at lunch tomorrow,” John tells him. “We missed you.”

Before Alex can think of a response – a rare occurrence for him – John glances at his watch and swears under his breath.

“Shit, I’m gonna be late. See you 7th period!” He takes off down the hall at a dead run, barely managing to avoid barreling into someone as he rounds the corner. His wild laugh still echoes after he’s disappeared down the hall.

“…thanks,” Alex says to the nearly empty hallway. Unwrapping the cheeseburger, he shoves a big bite into his mouth, chewing as quickly as he can before the bell rings for class.

-

It takes Angelica two days to read his finished draft.

“Cut it down to 500 words, and we’ll talk including it in next week’s publication,” she tells him Thursday after school, handing him a printed version of his article marked up in red pen. “And tone down the personal opinions _just_ a bit, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alex says, and a reluctant smile pulls at Angelica’s lips.

“You’re good, Hamilton. With a little polish, you could be great.”

Eliza barely waits until Angelica’s out of earshot before swooping in. “That’s high praise, coming from my sister,” she informs him. Her skin tone is shades lighter than Angelica’s, but they have the same dark, expressive eyes. Eliza’s smile is quicker, though.

“I get the sense that she’s not easily impressed,” Alex says.

John buts in, literally squeezing himself between Alex and Eliza and throwing one arm over each of their shoulders. “Angie’s never offered to polish _me_ off,” he laments, and wheezes out a laugh when Eliza elbows him hard in the ribs.

“God, Laurens, is your mind ever _not_ in the gutter?”

The rest of hour goes fast, Alex ducking out from under John’s arm to plant himself in front of a computer and work on revisions. In what’s become routine already, John gives him a ride home afterwards, more or less obeying the laws of traffic.

Even when he is following the speed limit though (or going less than 10 mph over it, which in John’s eyes, is the same thing), he’s a very distracted driver, constantly fiddling with radio or tapping out a beat on the steering wheel or letting his eyes linger too long on the review mirror because something entertaining is happening behind them.

“Yo, what are you doing tomorrow?” he asks after pulling to a screeching stop at a red light. He’s got his phone out, typing something, and Alex checks again that his seatbelt is securely fastened.

“Um. Homework?” he ventures. The amount he’s been assigned in the first week of school alone is more than a little daunting. His backpack is so stuffed with books it might weigh more than him.

John shoots him a look. The light turns green, and the car behind them honks. John rolls down his window even though it’s freezing out to flip them off before finally taking his foot off the brake. “On a Friday? Bro. That’s so weak.”

“What are you doing, then?” Alex counters, hugging his backpack to his chest.

“I don’t know. Probably something lame, to be honest, but me, Herc, and Laf always chill. You gotta come.”

Saying yes to John is already becoming a habit, but it’s not one that Alex is looking to break.

-

The Washingtons are big on eating as a family whenever possible, which usually means that he, Laf, and Martha eat dinner together, and George heats himself a plate when he gets home from work several hours later.

Martha hasn’t done a good job sticking with her resolution, because Alex and Laf don’t even have to play the sad orphan card to get take out almost every night that George works late. Tonight it’s Chinese, which settles heavily in Alex’s gut with each bite. He can’t stop eating, though, taking just one more piece of orange chicken, and his last one for real right after that.

When they’ve cleaned their plates (and most of the cartons – Alex silently apologizes to George), Martha gets up from the table.

“Alex, would you mind helping me wash up?”

Darting a quick glance to Lafayette, who shrugs unhelpfully, Alex also climbs to his feet. “Sure.”

Between the two of them, they manage to carry the dirty dishes and leftover Chinese to the kitchen. Alex piles the dishes into the sink, turning on the faucet to let hot water run over them.

“Oh, I can take care of that, dear,” Martha tells him. “I just wanted a moment of privacy with you to let you know that Abigail called.”

Alex can’t help the way his entire body stiffens. “She did?”

Emptying the extra food into Tupperware containers with color-coordinated lids, Martha nods. “Yes, she’d like to stop by next week or the week after to check in and wanted to know what time works best. I told her you usually don’t get home until 5pm or so because of the student paper. She’s so thrilled you’ve joined!”

Alex regrets eating that last piece of chicken, and also the one before it. His stomach twists, even though he knows rationally that Abigail’s visit is just her usual monthly check-in. Unless she has bad news that she’s waiting to tell him in person. But she wouldn’t wait a week or two if she had bad news, would she? Fuck, Alex should’ve skipped dinner altogether.

“Is there any day in particular that works best for you?” Martha asks him, snapping a lid into place.

Shaking his head, Alex stares at the water running in rivulets over the dirty mound of dishes. “No, whenever works. Just let me know when she’s coming. Please, I mean. I’m going to – is it alright if I go work on my homework?”

Martha looks over at him, studying him for a moment. “Of course. I’ll finish up in here.”

Turning off the tap, Alex makes his escape upstairs. He’s expecting an empty room and has big plans to throw himself dramatically on the bed – it’s expensive, and hardly even creaks, no matter how hard he lands on the mattress – and instead nearly slips on his socked feet when he grinds to a halt.  

“Jesus, Laf. You scared the shit out of me,” he says, gripping the doorframe to hold himself up.

Lafayette is draped on his back over the foot of Alex’s bed, his head dangling upside down. “Why is your room so clean?” he asks Alex. “Does a secret maid I do not know of clean it when we are not around?”

Alex doesn’t know how to say that he doesn’t have enough stuff to make a mess, so he opts to go on the offensive. “What are you doing in here?”

Pulling himself into a sitting position, Lafayette says hastily, “Sorry, mon ami. I should’ve asked first. I just wanted to make sure you were okay after your talk with Martha.”

Cautiously, Alex says, “We were just doing the dishes.”

“Oh.” Lafayette’s expression transforms effortlessly from concerned to completely neutral. It feels sort of like getting a door shut in his face, but that metaphor isn’t quite right. Alex is the one closing doors.

“Perhaps I misunderstood her intentions,” Laf continues, climbing off the bed. “I can leave you alone. I know you have homework to do.” His tone is as neutral as his expression. Alex can’t tell if he’s genuinely unbothered, or if he’s masking irritation at Alex.

He has to move out of the way for Lafayette to leave, and he shuffles to the side as Lafayette approaches the door. It’s a mixture of courage and impulse that has Alex reaching his hand out and grabbing hold of Lafayette’s wrist as he passes.

Lafayette pauses in Alex’s doorway, looking down at the circle of Alex’s fingers.

“Um,” Alex says eloquently. He takes a deep breath, forcing the words out. “I just – I just wanted to say thanks. For the way you always check in with me. It’s nice of you. Sorry if I’m – I’m just not used to it, I guess.”

Holding Laf’s wrist feels weird and unnatural, so Alex quickly releases his grip. He darts a glance up at Lafayette’s face, which is no longer neutral. With a terribly fond smile, Lafayette says, “That’s what friends are for, non? Sleep well, _mon petit chou_.”

“You, too,” Alex tells him.

If he dreams that night, he doesn’t remember in the morning.

-

Alex is especially thankful for John’s invitation when the Friday night plans the next day turn out to be hanging out in the Washington’s basement playing video games. It’s a weird feeling to know he’s wanted, and not just being included out of a sense of obligation. John doesn’t let him forget it, either, constantly nudging an elbow into Alex’s side or slapping his leg to get Alex’s attention as Herc and Laf get progressively more aggressive as the night wears on. Alex hadn’t realized that video games could be a contact sport.  

“Fuck this game,” Hercules says, throwing down his controller in disgust after his third straight Mario Kart loss to Lafayette.

“If you cannot take the hot, don’t go into the kitchen,” Laf tells him smugly as Peach takes a victory lap on the screen.

Herc looks extremely unimpressed. “I’ll beat your ass in real life and I won’t even feel bad about it.”

“Ohh, such threats from the man who cannot even reach third place!”

That’s all the goading Hercules needs to throw himself at Laf, wrapping a thick arm around his neck in a headlock. Lafayette wriggles his way to freedom, laughing breathlessly. “Is that all you have?”

Hitting Alex’s chest with the back of his hand, John says, “Yo, they could keep this up for hours. Let’s get more popcorn.”

They’ve demolished two bowls already, but the Washingtons’ pantry is both well-stocked and deep. Grabbing the empty bowl, John charges upstairs like he owns the place, Alex following on his heels as Herc tackles a cackling Lafayette to the floor.

In the kitchen, John helps himself to another bag of popcorn, ripping off the plastic wrapping and popping it into the microwave.

“I gotta piss,” he announces, pressing the start button. He points a finger at Alex. “Make sure it doesn’t burn. I’m trusting you, man.”

“I won’t let you down,” Alex promises. While the microwave hums, Alex busies himself dumping the kernels from the last batch of popcorn into the garbage bin. The big glass bowl slips a little in his grip, slick with butter, but he manages to catch it at first. When he tries to flip it right-side up again, though, his fingers can’t find purchase against the smooth glass.

The bowl falls to the floor in slow motion, hitting the tile with a deafening crash inches from Alex’s fingertips.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Alex chants, immediately dropping to his knees to gather the shattered remains of the bowl. It’s a reflex, and a poor one, because the shards of glass are sharp. He doesn’t register any pain, and at first, the red well of blood on his fingertip doesn’t compute. It’s not until the blood drips onto the mess of broken glass that he realizes he’s cut himself.

“Dude. What happened?”

Alex jerks at John’s voice, looking up at him with wide, panicked eyes. “I – it was an accident, I swear.”

“Obviously,” John says, striding into the kitchen. He takes in the broken glass and Alex’s now profusely bleeding hand. Distantly, the microwave beeps. Alex hopes he hasn’t let the popcorn burn.

“You go take care of that,” John tells him, nodding at Alex’s finger. “I’ll clean this up, yeah?”

Alex wants to argue – it’s not John’s mess, not John’s fault – but nausea is climbing his esophagus and locking himself in the bathroom before he makes things worse is probably the safest course of action.  Cradling his finger in his opposite hand – it’s starting to throb in time with his rapidly beating heart – Alex flees to the bathroom.

He closes the door behind him, but doesn’t know if he remembered to flip the lock. Turning the water as cold as it will go, he sticks his finger under the tap, letting it numb the pain a little and wash away the worst of the blood. Red swirls down the drain in jagged little tendrils, and Alex watches, mesmerized. Blood roars in his ears, through his pounding heart, out of his damaged finger, down down down the drain.

It’s hard to breathe. Why can’t he breathe? His chest is so tight, squeezed like it’s caught in a vice, and his lungs can’t – they can’t – his lungs –

There’s a dull tapping noise, a moment later the bathroom door swings open.

“Alex? Are you – shit. Alex. Are you okay?”

“I didn’t mean to break it,” Alex whispers. When the Washingtons find out he’s destroyed their property… god. He’s going to lose it all over a fucking bowl of popcorn. Bracing his uninjured hand on the counter, he leans on it heavily. His legs might be shaking. They don’t seem to want to hold him up. “I swear, I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s a fucking bowl, dude. They can get a new one at Costco for like, nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex says, even quieter. He might not say it aloud at all.

John’s voice barely cuts through the noise in his head. “I’m starting to think this isn’t really about the bowl.”

Alex watches as John leans over to turn the faucet off. His finger is still bleeding sluggishly, and John grabs one of the Washingtons’ pristine white towels to staunch the flow, wrapping it around Alex’s finger and squeezing tight.

“That’s gonna—” Alex swallows painfully through a tight throat. “It’s gonna ruin the towel.”

“Alex. Fuck the towel. I’m not going to let you bleed out.”

All Alex can manage in response is more ragged breathing.

“Okay,” John says decisively, still holding Alex’s hand tight. “Let’s have you sit down, alright? Can you sit down for me?”

Alex is ready to drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes, his weak knees incapable of a slow descent, but John grabs one of his arms with his free hand, lowering Alex at a slightly slower rate. Alex’s legs fold easily and he sort of crumples, his back against the wall next to the toilet.

Somehow John is right there with him, eyes still at Alex’s level, hand still pressing the towel against Alex’s throbbing finger. “Good, that’s good. Let’s work on deep breaths next. Can you do that? Take a deep breath?”

His gaze fastened on John’s, Alex takes a deep breath. It’s a little stuttery, and it hurts his chest, but John tells him he’s doing good, so good, so Alex does it again, and again, and again.

The sudden, loud pounding on the door steals all the air from his lungs, and Alex’s go wide as John swears. 

“The fuck you two doing in there?” Herc’s voice is a little muffled through the thick wood. Lafayatte’s French accent is even less audible, the words indecipherable.

“Fuck off,” John says. He gives Alex’s hand a little squeeze and Alex stares at him desperately, trying to communicate without words how much he doesn’t want Herc and Lafayatte to know how badly shaken he is. John’s no fool, because he somehow understands. “Alex ate something that disagreed with him,” he lies easily, raising his voice loud enough to be heard through the door, “and you two idiots were too busy jerking each other off to help.”

Lafayette’s voice gets louder and even less decipherable, and the door handle rattles as someone tries to turn it. Unlike Alex, though, John remembered to lock it. “Yo,” he says. “I’m no doctor, but I think Alex is gonna live. He only needs one person to hold back his hair though, so you guys can chill, yeah?”

There are grumbles from the other side, but after a moment, the sound of creaking floorboards signifies the other boys’ retreat to the basement.

“Thank you,” Alex mouths, and John actually winks.

He sits there quietly with Alex until his breathing slows back to normal, then carefully peels back the towel to inspect his finger. The cut is razer thin, but deep. Thanks to John, the bleeding has slowed significantly. Pushing to his feet, John turns the tap back on and sticks one corner of the rust-stained towel under the water, then returns his attention to Alex’s finger, dabbing away the dried blood with gentle strokes. Digging into the cabinet under the sink, he pulls out a box of band-aids and some Neosporin triumphantly.

“You really don’t have to,” Alex protests half-heartedly, but John’s already smeared the Neosporin on his finger and is unwrapping the band-aid.

Tongue caught between his teeth as he meticulously wraps the band-aid around Alex’s finger, John asks casually, “Do you have panic attacks a lot?”

Alex sucks in a sharp breath, and John’s eyes flick up briefly to his face. “Hey, I’m not judging, man. Laf used to get them sometimes when we were younger when we’d have sleepovers, whenever he’d, like, have a bad dream, or whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

Alex didn’t know that. He wonders what Laf’s bad dreams were about, if the beeping of his alarm clock ever turned into sirens, screaming out a warning that always comes too late. Abigail said he’d been a foster kid like Alex, before the Washingtons adopted him. He seems so sure of himself, so at home here, Alex had sort of forgotten.

“Sometimes,” he admits to John, shoving those thoughts down deep before they can suck him back in. He examines his bandaged finger as John sits back on his heels. Honesty seems like the very least he owes John for covering for him. For fixing him up. For not running the other direction when Alex fell apart.

John doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When Alex risks a glance at his face, John’s lips part like he’s going to say something, but he must think better of it, because he closes his mouth again. Instead, he climbs to his feet, holding out a hand for Alex. “I cleaned up the broken glass,” he tells him, hauling Alex to his feet. Alex’s legs are still a little shaky, but they hold him up. John lets go of his hand, and Alex lets it drop awkwardly to his side. “Honestly I don’t even think they’ll notice it’s gone.”

“Thanks,” Alex tells him again, the back of his neck hot with shame.

John pulls him in, sliding his arm over Alex’s shoulder and drawing him against his side in a half-hug of sorts. Alex doesn’t know if he should hug him back, and before he can figure out what to do with his arm, John’s released him.

“You ready to head back downstairs?” he asks.

“Sure,” Alex says, trying to believe it.

-

The panic attack has drained what little energy Alex had left after a full week in a new school, and his eyelids keep drooping, his body sagged into the cushions. Herc and Laf let him be for the most part – his pale face reinforces John’s quick cover story – and it’s not long before Alex’s head is nodding.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until the pillow under his cheek moves. Blinking slowly, Alex lifts his head, only to realize the pillow under his cheek was John’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says around a yawn. The TV’s still on, some late night informercial on mute, and it casts a flickering, bluish light onto John’s face, creating strange, dancing shadows. On the other end of the couch there’s a snoring, vaguely Hercules-shaped lump under a blanket. Lafayette is nowhere to be seen.

“S’alright,” John mumbles back. He rubs at his eyes with a loosely curled fist. “Laf went upstairs to bed, but the couch is big enough to share, if you wanna stay down here.”

Alex weighs the odds of a bad dream waking him up and disturbing John against the thought of getting up and walking all the way to his bedroom. It’s only because he’s so warm and comfortable that he lets himself sink back into the couch.

With a quiet laugh, more a huff of air than anything, John nudges Alex until he tips over onto his side. “You don’t kick in your sleep, do you?” he asks, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch before he stretches out next to Alex, draping the blanket over both of them. The cushion is wide enough that there’s a hands width of room between them, though it leaves Alex on the very edge. Grabbing Alex’s arm, John tugs him closer until they’re just barely touching, and Alex is no longer in danger of falling off.

“What if I do?” Alex asks, trying to figure out what to do with his hands.

“I’ll push you off the couch,” John tells him. He already sounds half asleep, the words slightly muffled because his mouth is against Alex’s temple.

Alex finally decides to roll onto his side, which puts his back to John’s chest. “I’ll try not to, then.”

“Cool,” John mumbles. A second later he’s snoring softly.

Alex thinks he’ll lie awake for a long time, unused to being so close to someone.

He falls asleep right away, though, and doesn’t wake up until early morning light is filtering through the high basement windows, John still snoring quietly in his ear. Alex sneaks off before he wakes.

-

Rumor gets around about his “illness” – Lafayette is the most likely snitch – because Martha keeps checking in with Alex the rest of the weekend to make sure he’s okay.

“I’m sure it was just something I ate,” Alex reassures her for the fourth time. “I feel fine now, honestly.” He tries not to think about the broken bowl, which still makes him feel a little sick. He’s had foster parents kick him out for less grievous offenses, and lying only compounds his crime, but he’s in too deep to come clean now. Besides, John covered for him, and he refuses to get John into trouble after everything he did for Alex.

Lafayette tries to cajole Alex into going out with the boys Saturday night. The plans are vague and include the Waffle Shack in some capacity, but Alex begs off, using his upset stomach as an excuse. Instead he holes up in his room, working on his truly monstrous pile of homework so he doesn’t wind up having a panic attack about that, too.

His phone buzzes with a text shortly after eight.

**Bro why aren’t you here!! Laf says ur not feeling good but thats no excuse** 😞

Alex picks up his phone, contemplating a reply, when another text from John comes through.

**If ur for real not feeling good tho we can bring you soup or something. U shouldn’t have to suffer alone!!** 😷 🥣

There’s a pang in Alex’s chest, but it doesn’t quite feel like panic.  

**Thanks man but I’m okay. Just really tired. Have a shot of mint for me, ok?**

It takes seconds for John to reply.

😂😂😂 **Not even for you man!! Get some rest ok. I expect you to be at lunch Monday!**

Alex sends him a thumbs up emoji before silencing his phone. He turns to his homework, but it’s hard to focus, his mind going too many directions at once. John’s texts made him smile, but the lingering anxiety from his panic attack the day before, and the pressure to not fuck up at school, and Abigail’s visit next week – fuck, is she going to expect his finished apology letter? – threaten to pull him into a dark spiral.

The last thing he needs is for Martha or George to find him curled up in another panic attack and realize they’ve bitten off more than they can chew with him, or for his guilt to compel him into a confession that’s too little, too late.

Alex’s palms are already growing damp just thinking about it, and he rubs them anxiously against his thighs. Two of his previous foster parents made him see a shrink, which was better than the biweekly groups he was forced to sit through with the rest of the kids from the group home. He didn’t stick with any of them long enough to touch the real reason behind his nightmares, or the pain that he learned to shove down so deep it crystalized into scar tissue some place dark inside him. Alex didn’t learn self-love or forgiveness or whatever fucking end goal they had, but he at least picked up a few tricks to help when his thoughts started to drift to a bad place to help keep the darkness at bay.

Shoving his books aside, he pulls out a battered notebook and opens it to a clean page. REASONS YOUR LIFE DOESN’T SUCK COMPLETELY he writes on the top. He will write down at least five before he goes back to his homework. It’s less about the quality of his list, and more about the mindfulness of the activity. If he thinks of his brain as a muscle that needs to be exercised, to be trained, to be disciplined, it’s easier to compartmentalize. Easier to trick himself into believing that everything is going to be okay.

Penciling in a one, he taps the eraser end against his mouth, thinking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**REASONS YOUR LIFE DOESN’T SUCK COMPLETELY**

  1. Lake Forest could’ve chosen neon green instead of blue, and then my eyesight would be permanently damaged
  2. I’ve only had the urge to punch 2-3 people even though almost everyone at school is insufferably rich
  3. I checked the cupboard and the Washingtons have more bowls than I can count. Hopefully it’s also more than they can count
  4. Despite his weird French nicknames, Lafayette is cool and seems genuinely nice. I think I can trust him
  5. I added regular coke to the grocery list and Martha really bought it. No one yelled at me or told me not to add anything next time. Experiment = success??? Will wait a week or two and try again with more obscure request
  6. John hasn’t gotten into a car accident and killed us yet
  7. John is… something
  8. I really like John



 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you didn’t catch it, that /was/ a les mis bread reference. also we finally got to that hurt/comfort tag baby!!
> 
> comments/kudos/feedback always appreciated :):):)


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you could never back down, never learn to take your time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for some violence and the usual angst

“Alright, alright, settle down, everyone, settle down. It’s once again Current Events Monday! Who’s got a current event to share with the class?”

It’s obvious that Mr. Jay’s ability to wrangle a classroom of students is shaky at best, but the noise slowly dies down. Alex doesn’t turn around to see if Jefferson’s hand is in the air, and even waits a polite three seconds before sticking his own up.

Either Alex is projecting, or Mr. Jay’s smile suddenly seems strained. “Ah. Mr. Hamilton. By all means, please share your topic with the class.”

There’s a spike in the noise level in the back of the class, but it cuts off abruptly. Alex doesn’t catch what was said, but it certainly sounded like Jefferson’s insufferably smug tone. Alex won’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

Mr. Jay’s smile is definitely brittle as he gestures for Alex to go ahead.

“Yeah, uh,” Alex says, tucking a strand of hair that’s escaped his ponytail behind his ear. “Over the weekend I read an article about fundraising efforts in the Caribbean for the islands that were devastated by Hurricane Reynolds last year. Performing arts centers across the nation are banding together for a week of donations to help raise funds for the arts, and—”

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Jay?”

This time, Alex can’t help whipping around in his seat. Jefferson is sat in his usual sprawl in the back, his loyal sidekick Madison straight-faced in the desk next to him. In a slow, deliberate motion, Jefferson brings one hand to his chin to scratch it. “I’m sorry,” he continues, not sounding apologetic in the slightest, “but I thought we were supposed to discuss _current events_ , not old, recycled news stories.”

“Are you deaf?” Alex asks him. “Or is your ability to comprehend words really that poor?”

“Hey now, there’s no need to be ableist,” Jefferson says, smiling benignly. Alex doesn’t buy his act for a second. “I’m just pointing out the parameters of the discussion, since it seems you’ve missed them.”

“The article I read was current,” Alex says, delivering each word crisply with barely contained anger.

Jefferson tilts his head in mock concern. His face is so punchable that Alex’s hand curls into a fist on reflex, and he has to force himself to straighten out his fingers underneath the desk.

“But the hurricane was last year,” Jefferson argues in the same infuriatingly serene tone. “It’s old news.”

Alex snaps. “Tell _that_ to the people who are still without power, the ones still rebuilding their homes, the ones who have to boil their drinking water because—”

“So what,” Jefferson interrupts. “You think a worthy news story to discuss is a bunch of people who decided, oh, these poor people don’t have any water to drink, let’s give them money to teach them how to paint? C’mon.”

“If you’d pull your head out of your ass for one second—”

“Mr. Hamilton!”

“Sorry, sir,” Alex says without turning back around to check on the status of Mr. Jay’s smile. Completely disintegrated, if the strain of his voice is anything to go by. “If you’d bother to use any of the seven brain cells you have left,” he corrects himself, still staring down Jefferson, “you’d maybe realize how cultivating the arts – which includes more than just ‘learning to paint,’ for the record – might make a difference to people who don’t have anything else. People need more than just a means to survive. They need a _reason_ for it.”

“Why do you take everything so personally?” Jefferson asks him, a furrow between his eyebrows. “We’re just having a debate. It’s not like you’re the one who’s actually trapped on some island without water, or god forbid, an arts program.”

Alex grinds his teeth together so hard his jaw is going to ache later. He breathes through his nose, in and out, in and out, holding onto his temper by a thread.

“What?” Jefferson has no idea when to shut his fucking mouth. “Suddenly you’ve got nothing to say?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Alex bites out. The look of shock that crosses Jefferson’s face is almost worth it.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Mr. Jay cuts in, entirely too late. He points to the door. “Mr. Hamilton, principal’s office. _Now_.”

A low murmur ripples through the class. Alex hasn’t had a chance to unpack any of his stuff, which is for the best, since his hands are shaking too badly to do much more than scoop up his book bag.

He accidentally catches Burr’s eye on his way out. Burr just raises one eyebrow as if to say _what did you think would happen?_

Alex lets the door slam behind him harder than necessary. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

-

The chairs in Principal Franklin’s office are somehow harder than the ones in Ms. Ross’s. Alex can’t help fidgeting in his seat, looking everywhere but Principal Franklin’s eyes, but mostly at his own lap. His entire focus eventually narrows down to a loose thread from the cuff of his blazer. That price tag, and already it’s falling apart? Alex picks at it until a Lake Forest blue strand dangles several inches from his sleeve.

If Principal Franklin’s speech varies in content from the usual school administration bullshit, Alex doesn’t pay enough attention to notice. He pushes his ‘yes sirs’ out from between clenched teeth whenever there’s an expectant pause, and clasps his hands together before he can unravel his entire sleeve as Franklin keeps talking. And talking. And talking.

“Do we understand each other, son?” Franklin asks after a lifetime. There’s a finality to his voice that gives Alex hope of escape.

“Yes, sir,” he says for the hundredth time, risking a glance up.

Franklin studies him intently over the wire rim of his glasses, not unlike a scientist looking into a microscope. Alex doesn’t like feeling like a specimen, and his knuckles go white with the force of his grip.

“Senator Washington vouched for you, you know,” Franklin says after a moment. “He had to pull quite a few strings to enroll you halfway through the semester, and with your… prior history.”

Alex swallows against a sudden rush of saliva. “Is that so.”

Weak, watery sunlight streaming through the window reflects off Franklin’s shiny bald head. “For his sake, son, I hope you can pull it together.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex grinds out. “Is that all?”

After a slight pause, Franklin nods. “You’re dismissed.”

By the time Alex is freed, third period is over and they’re halfway into fourth. He’s probably expected back in class, but instead he heads for the nearest bathroom to splash cold water on his face until the urge to scream or smash his fist into the mirror passes. He’ll only bust his knuckles up and add destruction of property to his rap sheet, he tries to reason with himself, but those reasons just don’t seem compelling enough to resist.

The bathroom door bangs open, startling him, and Alex looks over, his face still dripping water.

Burr stands there, his split second of surprise quickly masked. “Alexander,” he says, using Alex’s given name for no other reason than to piss Alex off, probably.

“Aaron Burr,” Alex replies, just to be a dick. He can feel a drop of water slide down his cheek, but doesn’t lift a hand to wipe it away and call even more attention to the fact that he’s a fucking mess.

Burr hesitates. “I can use the bathroom near the chem lab, if you’re… busy.”

“I was just leaving,” Alex tells him, brushing past Burr to grab a couple paper towels out of the dispenser.

“I did try to warn you, you know,” Burr says, so softly Alex almost misses it.

“What was that?” he asks, pivoting a half step to look back at Burr.

Burr meets his eye, unblinking. “You shouldn’t let Jefferson get under your skin like that. His dad is on the school board. It’ll always be you who gets sent to the principal’s office.”

For the first time all day, Alex actually feels like smiling. “And it will never be you who has the satisfaction of telling him to go fuck himself. Have a good one, Burr.”

Quickly scrubbing the paper towels over his face, Alex tosses them into the trash before walking out the door.

-

John’s already heard several versions of the event by lunch, and wants a complete play-by-play from Alex.

“Dude. _Dude_. Did you really tell him to pull his head out of his ass?” John’s laugh could best be described as a cackle.

Alex scratches the back of his neck with one hand, shuffling his peas around from one side of his plate to the other with his fork. “Um. I think so? It’s kind of a blur, to be honest.”

“That is _legendary_ ,” John says in awe.

“It was nice knowing you, dude, but he’s probably going to have you murdered in your sleep,” Herc tells him through a mouthful of pasta.

“If you are going to insult someone like Jefferson, you need to do it away from teachers,” Lafayette advises. “Eliminate witnesses and you will avoid consequences. It is simple strategy.”

Alex presses the tines of his fork into his peas, mashing them into a green paste. “Oh, sure. Next time he pisses me off, I’ll just ask him to step out into the hall quick before I verbally assault him.”

With a sympathetic smile, Lafayette says, “If you want to wage a war, mon ami, you need to choose your battles with more care, or you will lose.”

Dropping his fork, Alex pushes his tray away. “How much trouble am I in with the Washingtons?”

There’s a loaded silence that more than answers the question. “Like I said,” Lafayette says at last. “Learn to pick your battles, or you will lose.”

-

George’s car is in the driveway when John drops him off after school. Idling behind it, John asks, “He’s not usually home so early, is he?”

“He doesn’t usually get phone calls from school about his foster kid telling other students to fuck themselves, does he?” Alex counters.

John winces. “Right. Shit. Good luck, man.”

Alex unbuckles his seatbelt, but before he can open the door, John reaches over and grabs his arm. “Hey,” he says, low and intense. “Unlike my dad, George is a pretty fair and reasonable man. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Staring at the circle of John’s fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist, Alex says, “That’s not how Laf made it sound.”

John smiles wryly. “Laf is the Washington’s golden child. He’s not used to disappointing his parents.”

“Are you?” Alex asks without thinking.

John’s thumb sweeps almost absentmindedly over the thin skin where Alex’s pulse beats. “Let’s just say my relationship with my parents is complicated.”

“Complicated,” Alex repeats.

Huffing out a breath, John says, “I mean, this car, for example – a bribe for my love, sure, but if my grades slip or I miss curfew, or I come home drunk and throw up in a potted plant—”

“No!” Alex laughs. “You didn’t.”

John’s grin is all teeth. “Twice. I don’t know what it is about greenery that makes me wanna puke. Anyway, my dad’s favorite punishment is to take my car away, to hold it over my head that he holds the title and that if I don’t meet his expectations, he’ll take my keys and my freedom.”

Alex thinks about this. “That’s kinda fucked up.”

“Yeah,” John says. “But, like, Washington isn’t like that, is what I’m trying to say.” He squeezes Alex’s wrist before finally dropping it. “And if he is on some bullshit? We’ll steal this car and flee to – I don’t know, Mexico or some shit. Start a new life.”

A reluctant smile tugs at Alex’s lips. “Kind of extreme.”

John smiles back. The golden light of early evening throws every one of his freckles into sharp relief. “Always good to have a contingency plan.”

Despite John’s pep talk, Alex’s stomach is still in knots as he approaches the front door. He got away with the broken bowl, but this is a different beast entirely. If George decides that Alex tarnishing his reputation isn’t worth the trouble…

Alex’s palm is damp, the doorknob slipping in his grip. He somehow manages to get the door open with minimal fumbling, raising one hand to wave John off before he goes inside.

The front hall is empty, but there’s muffled music coming from upstairs – the pounding, relentless bassline suggests Lafayette is the most likely source – and the sounds of someone puttering around in the kitchen. Alex stands there a moment, just breathing.

He’s about to retreat upstairs and maybe pretend to be asleep or even dead, whatever will help him avoid the inevitable, when George’s voice calls out. “Alex, is that you?”

Alex licks his lips with a suddenly dry tongue. “Yes, sir.”

“Come to my study, please.”

There’s no inflection in George’s voice to indicate his level of anger, just the slightly raised volume because he’s several rooms away. Alex’s feet feel very heavy, dragging on the ground with each step as he makes his way through the house to George’s study. The door is open, and Alex comes to a stop in the doorway.

George looks up from the stack of papers he’d been reviewing and slides a pair of reading glasses off his nose. Gesturing to the chair across from his desk, he tells Alex, “Close the door behind you.”

Alex slowly does as he’s asked, easing the door shut until it clicks with finality before lowering himself into the chair across from George. It’s much more comfortable than the one in Principal Franklin’s office, but Alex still fidgets, wiping his clammy hands off on his khakis, leg bouncing.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, George says, “You know what we need to talk about.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but Alex answers anyway. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay.” George doesn’t tell Alex not to call him sir, which isn’t a good sign. But then he surprises Alex by saying, “Why don’t we start with your version of the story?”

A half-formed defense was already on the tip of Alex’s tongue, but George has thrown off his rhythm, leaving him stumbling. “I – didn’t Frank—Principal Franklin tell you what happened?”

George places both hands on the desk in front of him, steepling his fingers. “He certainly did. And if you think his version is accurate, then there’s no need to rehash it. I wanted to give you the chance to set the record straight, however.”

“Oh,” Alex says. His leg is still bouncing, and he forces it to still, pressing down on his knee. “Um, I mean. I can tell you what happened, in case there are… discrepancies, in what Principal Franklin told you.” There are always discrepancies between what really happened, and what authority thinks happened. “We were in class, having a discussion about current events – Mr. Jay has this current event thing on Mondays? – anyway, I brought up the funding drive for the arts, for the islands effected by Hurricane Reynolds.”

George nods. “Go on.”

“Right. Well, Jefferson – Thomas – started arguing with me, saying it didn’t count as a current event because the hurricane was last year, and we sort of – got into it.”

One of George’s eyebrows arches. “Over the definition of current?”

“I –” Alex falters. “I mean, initially, yeah. But it was more—” Swallowing, Alex looks down at his hands. “It’s obvious he doesn’t care about other people. Less privileged people, I mean. He was so _dismissive_ of the pain and suffering everyone on those islands went through. Like, he couldn’t seem to get it through his thick head that they’re real, live people and are _still_ suffering! To him it’s just a debate, a topic that can be dismissed on some arbitrary technicality, but to me—” Alex cuts himself off, taking a couple deep breaths.

“It’s a lot more personal to you,” George finishes.

Alex doesn’t look up. George has read his file. No doubt he knows. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence. “I think it goes without saying,” George says at last, “that such, shall we say, colorful language isn’t going to be tolerated at school.”

Slouching even further in his seat, Alex mumbles, “Yessir.”

“—but,” George continues, “I can appreciate the intent behind your words. You’re a passionate young man, Alex. The fact that you stand up for your beliefs without flinching is an admirable trait.”

Alex stares at him in disbelief. “Are you saying that it was a good thing I told Jefferson to go f—uh. That I told Jefferson what I told him?”

There’s just the slightest twitch at the corner of George’s mouth. “Not exactly. Your conviction is a good thing, but no one will hear what you’re trying to say if you resort to insults. Not everyone has your gift with words, Alex. Don’t throw that away by letting your anger get the best of you.”

“In my defense,” Alex says, sitting up a little straighter. “Jefferson is really, _really_ annoying.”

George cracks a smile. “You still can’t tell him to go fuck himself.”

Alex huffs out a disbelieving laugh, and George continues, “So if we’re on the same page here, I have something else to discuss with you.”

This conversation is a roller coaster. “Um, alright,” Alex says, his leg right back to bouncing.

Sliding open a drawer, George pulls out a thin packet of papers, laying it on the desk between them. “There’s a summer internship that I think might appeal to you. It’s quite selective, I won’t lie, but the application does include an essay portion which should give you an edge.” George nudges the packet closer to Alex. “I wouldn’t suggest this opportunity if I didn’t think you had a fair shot at it.”

Reaching out, Alex cautiously picks up the packet, careful not to smudge the ink with his sweaty hands. He skims it quickly, and his pulse kicks. The application looks rigorous, but it’s for an internship at a law firm specializing in constitutional law. Sure enough, the last page includes an essay question. _‘What does the American Dream mean to me?’_ He can’t see how it relates to law, but already a rough draft starts to form in his mind.  

“They really want high school interns?” he asks.

“Only the best and the brightest,” George tells him. “Think about it, alright? You don’t need to make a decision tonight, but the deadline to apply is coming up fairly quickly.”

Alex reads through the packet again, more slowly this time. “I will,” he promises, getting to his feet as George turns back to his work. He takes a shuffling step towards the door, then pauses. “Um. George?”

George looks at him expectantly.

“Sorry,” Alex says quickly, the words coming out in a rush. “I know my behavior reflects poorly on you, especially at school. I really wasn’t thinking when I said what I said.”

“Alex, I don’t want you to worry about my reputation,” George tells him. “That’s the least of my concerns.”

Still clutching the packet, Alex gives him a quick nod, then makes his escape to his room.

This time, there’s no Lafayette camped out on his bed, but there is a knock on the door not ten seconds after Alex closes it behind him.

“Yeah?” he says, slipping the packet under one of his textbooks on the desk. Just for safe-keeping, so it doesn’t get wrinkled.

It’s all the prompting Lafayette needs to come bursting through the door. “Mon petit lion, how much trouble are you in? Did George ground you? I know several ways to break you out, but they will require a ladder, a drone, and possibly a dress. How do you feel about heights?”

“Whoa, slow down, bro,” Alex says, leaning against the desk. “I’m not actually grounded?”

“Oh,” Lafayette says. Shutting the door behind him, he stretches out on Alex’s unmade bed, pushing a pile of not-dirty-enough-to-wash, but not-clean-enough-to-put-away clothes onto the floor. “That’s good fortune. Do you want to go to the Waffle Shack then? Herc has a craving for waffles, and John has challenged him to take a shot of pineapple syrup.”

“Pineapple? Why—” Alex shakes his head. “Nevermind. I’d love to go, but I have—”

“Homework,” Lafayette finishes for him. He’s changed out of his school uniform already, and he wriggles a little on the bed, making himself comfortable on the wrinkled comforter.

“Yeah,” Alex says, his mind still on the application. “Rain check?”

“You won’t get another opportunity to see Herc’s face after a shot of pineapple,” Lafayette warns him.

Alex laughs. “Take a picture for me.”

-

The picture comes through less than an hour later when Alex is halfway through his chem homework, the application still tucked safely away. It’s blurry and hard to make out exactly what’s happening, clearly taken during a flurry of motion, though Alex at least spots Herc’s bandana in the frame. Lafayette doesn’t text him anything else, but John does.

**You better quit bailing on us bro, or I’m gonna make you take a shot of mint and pineapple combined!!**

Alex texts back a vomiting emoji.

In response, he gets two from John that he can’t quite interpret.

😂😘

-

Alex forgets entirely about Abigail’s visit the following week.

“Who’s car is that?” John asks, pulling into the driveway.

The blood drains from Alex’s face. “No idea,” he lies. “See you tomorrow?”

John gives him a quizzical look, but doesn’t push it. “Sure, man. See you.”

Inside the house, Alex kicks off his shoes and drops his bookbag before skidding into the kitchen on socked feet, where Abigail is sat at the table with Martha.

“Where’s the fire?” she asks.

“I was just telling Abigail about your work on the student paper,” Martha says, beaming at him. “It’s really quite impressive.”

“Um. Thanks,” Alex says, smoothing back his hair nervously.

Martha stands, gesturing for Alex to take her empty chair. “I’ll give you two a chance to talk. I’ll be in the living room if you need me for anything.”

“Appreciate it, Martha,” Abigail tells her warmly. Alex sinks into the chair across from Abigail, his feet swinging a few times before he catches them on the rung as Martha slips out of the kitchen.

“What’d she tell you?” he wants to know immediately.

“Twitchy today, aren’t you?” Abigail observes. “What do you think she told me?”

Alex shakes his head. “No, none of your pseudo-psychology trick questions today. I’m serious, Abigail.”

“It’s not a ‘pseudo-psychology trick question.’ I really do want to know how you think things are going. But since I can see how anxious it’s making you, Martha had nothing but good things to say about you.”

Alex sags a little in his chair, the tension draining away. “What about school?”

Abigail’s dry look says it all. “A slightly less positive report, but you already knew that.”

Digging his socked toes into the grout between tiles, Alex asks, “But not bad enough they want to kick me out, right?”

Abigail waits until Alex looks at her again before answering. “The Washingtons are still moving forward with the licensing process. They haven’t given me any indication they’re reconsidering placement.” She pauses. “I take it you want to stay here?”

“Yeah. Yes. I do,” Alex says immediately.

“Okay then,” Abigail agrees. Switching gears, she asks, “Have you been following your court conditions? No fights? No police contact?”

Alex crosses his heart. “Of course.”

“Good. What about your apology letter? Did you finish?”

With a wince, Alex says, “I mean. Yes, I have a – version of it done.”

“Oh boy,” Abigail says. “That’s not a worrisome response. Let’s see it then.”

Obediently, Alex pushes to his feet to go grab the letter from his desk. There’s no doubt in his mind Abigail’s going to make him rewrite it, but giving her another gray hair first might be worth it.

-

“Yo,” John says as the bell rings, releasing them from seventh period after another long day. “I will literally die if I don’t get a cherry Slurpee right now.”

“That’s oddly specific and incredibly morbid,” Alex tells him, swinging his bookbag over his shoulder.

John doesn’t seem bothered. “You’re almost done with your article, right? So we have time to go to the 7-11 on the corner quick without facing Angelica’s wrath.”

Spring is still a distant hope, but now that John’s said it, Alex could go for a Slurpee – blue-raspberry, obviously – despite the chill in the air. He gets a weekly allowance from the Washingtons, which he carefully saves, but a small Slurpee won’t set him back too far.

“Sure,” Alex agrees, like it was ever an option to tell John no.

There’s the usual throng of students loitering just outside the doors, slowly trickling into the parking lot which is congested with expensive cars vying for the single exit. John cuts through the crowd to the sidewalk, Alex sticking tight to his side. He zips his coat up to his chin and shoves his gloveless hands into his pockets as they walk, still not used to the cold after all these years.

There are a handful of students in Lake Forest blue at the 7-11, but it seems no one else has an off season craving for Slurpee’s. John, naturally, selects the biggest size available, filling the gigantic cup to the brim with cherry red.

“You’re going to get brain freeze, and I’m not going to feel bad for you,” Alex tells him, mostly to pretend that his own choice of the smallest size is a decision not driven by his lack of finances.

“Whatever. It’ll be worth it,” John says, stabbing his straw through the dome lid.

The cup is cold against Alex’s fingers as he carries it to the register, treading carefully on the wet floor slippery with melted snow. He waits in line behind John to pay, wishing he’d brought his gloves; the short walk back to school is going to be miserable. His frozen fingers might not thaw out enough to finish typing his article, and then Angelica really will yell at both of them for being idiots.

John’s face as he takes his first sip is pure serenity. “Yes,” he groans. “That’s it right there. I’m going to live after all.”

Laughing, Alex follows him out the door, the little bell tinkling overhead. “I had no idea you had such strong feelings about Slurpee’s.”

John winks at him. “I’m full of hidden depths.”

Taking a sip of his own drink – delicious and freezing, a double-edged sword – Alex picks his way along the icy sidewalk back towards school. There’s a tightly-knotted group of students blocking the way, and one of them breathes a cloud of cigarette smoke right in their faces as they try to push pass without having to step in the snow-covered terrace.

Alex coughs obnoxiously with obvious irritation. “You wanna kill yourself with lung cancer, that’s your problem, man, but leave the rest of us out of it.”

“It’s a free country, man,” the kid says, sucking in another lungful of smoke just to blow it out again deliberately into Alex’s face. Alex recognizes him from one of his classes, but can’t remember his name. His friends back up a little, forming a loose half-circle around him.

“You’re free to be an asshole, Lee,” John chimes in, slurping his drink. It’s already staining his lips a bright, cherry red. “But we’re free to call you out on it.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not free to smoke within fifty feet of school grounds, though,” Alex points out sweetly.

Cigarette dangling from his lips, Lee takes an exaggerated step backwards while a couple of his friends laugh. “Is that better for you, princess? Am I abiding the law to your liking?”

Alex’s cold fingers tighten on his cup, denting it. “Are you always so charming? Or do you just get off on infecting innocent people with carcinogens?”

Lee smiles, showing off expensively straight, white teeth with no hint of nicotine stains. “I know who you are. You’ve got an awfully big mouth considering you don’t belong here in the first place.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me,” Lee continues conversationally, ashing off the end of his cigarette. “Is Washington going to keep collecting underage boys? What does he do with all of you? Throw you out after you’ve served your use, then onto the next?”

Blood roars in Alex’s ears. His hands are fists, the Slurpee staining the snow at his feet blue, though he doesn’t remember dropping the cup. “What the fuck are you implying?”

“Is it too mentally taxing for you to figure out? I don’t see why someone like you is even allowed to attend Lake Forest. What a waste of resources,” Lee says, his lip curling.

“I think,” John says slowly in a dangerous, low voice, “that you need to shut your fucking mouth before someone shuts it for you.”

Another fight – even if it’s off school grounds – will definitely violate Alex’s court conditions. He’ll be back in detention, his future down the drain, the Washingtons a distant memory. He tells himself this, even as his fist draws back, muscles coiled to spring. John edges half a step in front of him, nudging Alex backwards.

“Is that a threat?” Lee asks John, looking amused. The semi-circle around them closes in, like sharks scenting blood.

“Actually, it was a warning,” John says. He shoves his Slurpee at Alex, who takes it on autopilot, wrapping two hands around the enormous cup to keep from dropping it. With his hands free, John wastes no time. Though Alex will remember it in slow motion later, the action is over in a few seconds: John’s fist, flying in a graceful arc through the air, smashing into Lee’s jaw with an audible crack that snaps his head back.

Lee drops like a stone, howling and clutching his face while John stands there, grimly satisfied. The circle of sharks converges, one of Lee’s friends dropping down to check on him while the others give Alex and John looks varying from alarm to disgust.

“You broke his jaw,” the crouching guy says, glaring up at them.

“Good. Maybe next time he’ll stop and think before running his mouth about my friend,” John snaps back.

Alex clutches John’s oversized Slurpee with numb fingers, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

> **WHAT THE AMERICAN DREAM MEANS TO ME**
> 
> I didn’t grow up in America.
> 
> I grew up on a tiny island in the Caribbean where the sound of the ocean was always playing in the background, a constant, every day soundtrack. My mother told me it was the very same ocean whose waves kissed the feet of Lady Liberty, that towering symbol of freedom in America. She promised to take me one day, to see her for myself. We’d have a better life then, my mother said. In America, your destiny is in your own hands, and no one else’s.
> 
> In the Caribbean, a hurricane snatched our destiny away. It destroyed our home, our village, even the familiar shape of my favorite cove to swim in, turning it into a strange, alien territory that I barely recognized. But my mother and I still had each other, and the strong conviction of my mother’s dream that one day, our lives would be better in America.
> 
> After the hurricane, sickness snatched my mother’s life away. It destroyed my family, my hope, and the half-repaired house that no longer felt like home without my mother’s love to fill the empty rooms. All I had was the conviction of my mother’s dream, that one day, my life would be better in America.
> 
> It took a miracle for me to cross the ocean, the very same ocean that kissed the sands of my favorite cove, reminding me of everything I’d lost. In America, I was promised a dream that wasn’t delivered. Instead of hope for a new life, a better life, my destiny fell into the hands of a system designed to ensure that I failed at every turn.
> 
> But I didn’t give up. I didn’t stop fighting. My opportunity will come, and when it does, I will be ready.
> 
> In America, there is always an opportunity for those ready to take it, to fight for it, to make their destiny their own.
> 
> That’s the American dream.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unless things get really out of hand, this thing is going to be 10 chapters + a short epilogue, so we're about halfway through. if life continues to be cooperative, updates will continue to be weekly. 
> 
> thanks as always for the comments/kudos xoxo


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fan this spark into a flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for underage drinking and subsequent stupid choices, and some implied internalized homophobia

“Alex. Mon ami. Is that really what you’re wearing?”

Alex looks down at his faded gray hoodie and threadbare jeans, twin holes in the knees. He doesn’t see the issue. “Um. Yes?”

“Non. This will not do.”

Grabbing Alex by the wrist, Lafayette drags him into his bedroom, pushing him towards the bed before going to his closet. Cautiously, Alex perches on the edge of Lafayette’s mattress while Lafayette digs around, muttering under his breath.

“I didn’t realize there would be a dress code,” Alex says dryly. Still half buried in the closet, Laf throws a black hoodie at him, followed by a pair of black jeans. Frowning, Alex holds up the jeans and says, “You do realize you’ve got, like, six inches on me.”

Laf emerges from the closet with a grin. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“That was – did you just make a pun? In _English_?”

“You can roll the cuffs up, yes?” Lafayette asks, entirely too smug. “It’s the color that’s important, not the size.”

Rolling his eyes, Alex complains, “Yeah, until my pants fall off mid heist, or whatever the hell we’re calling this.”

“Heist,” Lafayette says slowly, like he’s savoring the word. “Yes, I like that.” His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his pocket, eyes quickly skimming before he taps out a reply. “Herc will be here in five minutes. Get changed.”

Alex retreats to his own room, where he quickly discards his hoodie and jeans, replacing them with Lafayette’s. The sleeves hang past his hands, and he rolls those first before tackling the jeans. He’s only on the short side of average, but Lafayette is both tall and broad-shouldered, and his clothes hang off Alex’s thin frame. Alex looks ridiculous.

“Dude. I look ridiculous,” he says, coming out of his room to show Lafayette the results.

Lafayette tugs on his hood, pulling it over Alex’s head and tightening the drawstring until only Alex’s eyes and nose are visible. “You look like a spy,” Lafayette declares. “Let’s go!”

Hercules is parked on the street, not in the driveway, which only adds to the sense of danger and intrigue.

“What the hell,” he says, catching Alex’s eye in the rear-view mirror when Alex climbs in the backseat. “What are you wearing? You look ridiculous.”

Fumbling with the drawstring, Alex loosens it enough to shove the hood off. “See! I told you!”

“Hush,” Lafayette tells him, buckling himself in the front seat. “If we stop to buy Alex his own heist clothes, we will keep John waiting even longer.”

Pulling away from the curb, Herc shakes his head. “You really think this is some Ocean’s 11 shit, huh.”

Lafayette makes a wounded noise. “Where is your sense of adventure!”

The drive to John’s house doesn’t take long with rush hour long over and the dark streets nearly empty. Herc parks down the block, which Alex doesn’t realize until the boys climb out of the car and head for the corner, rather than the row of red brick townhouses that line the street.

“Um,” Alex says, following behind them. He stumbles as he tries to flip his hood back on and shove his sleeves up at the same time; they keep falling down his skinny wrists despite the number of times he’s rolled them up. “Where are we going?”

“This is a heist, mon ami!” Lafayette says in a stage whisper. “We cannot just waltz in through the front door.”

“Not a heist,” Herc corrects. He glances around – despite his critique of Alex’s clothes and Laf’s overenthusiasm, he’s also wearing all black – before darting down a narrow alleyway. “C’mon,” he hisses, “before someone sees us and calls the cops.”

Alex and Laf hurry to catch up to him, darting into the shadows. They pick their way past snow-covered shrubbery and garbage bins until Herc comes to a stop behind one of the townhouses. Most of the windows are dark, save for a few on the basement level, a cheerful glow emerging from deep window wells.

“John said he disconnected the security light, so we should be good,” Herc tells them in a rough whisper. Directing his next words at Alex, he adds, “Just stick close to the house until you reach the first window well. They’re not very big, so we’ll have to go one at a time.”

“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Alex whispers back. He’s cold in just Lafayette’s oversized hoodie, but his palms are somehow still clammy with sweat.

Herc’s teeth flash white in the night. “This is not the first time John has gotten himself grounded, nor will it be the last.”

“It is the first time he’s hospitalized someone though,” Lafayette points out.

Alex huffs. “Lee’s jaw wasn’t _actually_ broken.” A couple of his teeth were, though. So much for all that expensive dental work he invested in.

“Whatever. Let’s have this debate inside, yeah? I’m freezing my balls off.” Without looking back, Hercules scurries ahead, hugging the side of the house until he reaches the first window well, which is as dark as the rest of the house. With more grace than someone his size should possess, he drops down silently, disappearing into shadow.

Lafayette waits a moment, the air silent save for their breathing, each puff of air visible in the cold. “Okay,” he says at last. “Give me thirty seconds, and then you follow, yes?”

Fighting a shiver, Alex nods. “Got it.”

Lafayette follows the same path as Hercules, though the sound of his feet hitting the stones that line the bottom of the window well is audible. Alex stands there, counting silently until he reaches 22, then starts walking, too cold and jumpy to wait any longer.

It’s maybe a three-foot drop to the bottom of the window well. Up close, he can see that it’s not entirely dark, but what little light there is barely illuminates the bottom. Crouching down, Alex braces himself with frozen fingers before making the plunge.

He lands lightly on his feet, and the window almost immediately opens just wide enough for him to wriggle through. Alex slides through feet first, and a hand grabs his arm, steadying him as he rights himself. It takes a second for Alex’s eyes to adjust, and then John’s freckled face comes into focus, grinning wide.

“What’d Laf and Herc bribe you with to get you to actually come?” he asks, shoving the window closed with one hand because he’s still holding onto Alex’s with the other. There’s a pile of boots dripping dirty snow just beside the window, and Alex kicks his off, standing there in socked feet.

“You wouldn’t be grounded in the first place if you hadn’t been defending me,” he says, ducking his head.

John laughs, low and warm. “I promise you, it was worth it.” Tugging Alex’s wrist, he says, “C’mon.”

John leads him past a rumbling furnace and water heater towards a slightly ajar door, which is evidently the source of the faint light. Through the door is a similar set up to the Washington’s basement: a finished living room space with a massive leather sectional and a TV sized to match. There’s also a kitchenette against the far wall, complete with a mini fridge and a microwave. Lafayette and Herc are already lounging on the couch, fighting over the remote, clearly at home.

“My room’s through that door,” John says, pointing to a door opposite the one they’ve just come through. “There’s an ensuite, too, so no need to risk going upstairs for anything.”

Alex shifts his weight, lets John pull him towards the couch. “And what happens if your dad comes down here and catches us?”

Throwing himself down on the couch, John snorts. “It’ll never happen.” His grip on Alex’s wrist hasn’t lessened, and he yanks hard, until Alex lands in a pile on the cushion next to him. Seemingly satisfied, he finally releases Alex. “I can’t remember the last time my dad’s come down here. He’s not home right now anyway, but as long as I’m here when he does get home and yells for me, we’re all good.”

John pauses, looking Alex over suddenly with a critical eye. “Dude. What are you _wearing_?”

Burying his face in his hands, Alex moans, “This is your fault, Laf.”

Lafayette laughs, unrepentant. “Alex does not own any appropriate heisting clothes. We had to improvise!”

“’Heisting’?” John does not sound impressed. “You literally just snuck in through a window that, by the way, meets fire codes to be an emergency exit, so it’s not exactly a challenge. You’re not even breaking me out.”

Kicking his feet up on the coffee table, Herc says, “I tried to tell them, Laurens, I really did.”

“If anything, you should’ve made Alex wear a coat,” John continues, getting fired up. “Look at him. He’s shivering.”

“Am not,” Alex says, indignant. It’s admittedly not one of his best lies, considering he can’t force himself to stop trembling.

John nudges one of Alex’s hands away from his face, replacing it with his fingers. “You feel like ice.”

“That’s just because your hands are so hot,” Alex tries to argue. It’s hard not to press his cheek into the warmth of John’s palm, but he catches the amused look Laf shoots his way and holds himself in check.

“I’ll get you a blanket,” John tells him, pulling his hand back.

“Ooh, while you’re up,” Herc says the second John gets to his feet. “How stocked is your dad’s liquor cabinet?”

Disappearing into his room, John calls over his shoulder, “Sorry, man, tonight’s BYOB. If my dad found out I’d taken his alcohol after nearly getting arrested, he would literally kill me.”

“Wait. ‘Nearly’?”

Returning with a thick, dark gray comforter, which he drops in Alex’s lap, John nods. “Yeah, Lee’s not pressing charges. I have no idea how much money my dad dropped negotiating _that_ one.”

Slowly, Alex fumbles with the blanket, pulling it over his shoulders until he’s cocooned inside it. It smells faintly familiar, and it takes him a moment to pinpoint the scent – John’s cologne or soap, whatever product he uses on a daily basis that clings to his skin. He must’ve pulled this off his bed.

“But – they put you in the back of the squad,” Alex says, pulling the blanket tight around him. He can still see the flashing lights, red and blue flickering off John’s pale face.

John shrugs. “They didn’t take me to the station or anything. Though honestly, that might’ve been a more pleasant experience than the ride home with my dad.”

Alex falls silent, lost in thought. Hercules wins the battle for the remote and chooses a basketball game, which Lafayette laments is not a real sport while John settles back onto the couch, shoving aside a throw pillow so he can sit closer to Alex.

-

The game ends and some late-night sitcom comes on, but no one makes any move to change the channel. Alex is a melted burrito in John’s blanket, sinking slowly into John’s side with eyelids that grow heavier every time he blinks.

A sudden snore comes from the other end of the couch, and John snickers.

“Wild Friday night, huh?” he asks, voice pitched low.

“I don’t mind,” Alex mumbles. John’s blanket is really warm, and his side is even warmer. With his cheek pressed against John’s shoulder, Alex can feel the steady rise and fall of John’s breathing slowly lulling him to sleep.

“This is starting to become a habit,” John whispers.

“Guess you’ve just got a comfortable shoulder,” Alex says. It’s not true in the slightest; John’s shoulder is incredibly boney. Alex struggles to push himself upright with the blanket still wrapped tightly around him, suddenly worried that that was John’s polite way of telling him to fuck off.

John huffs out a quiet laugh. “No, man, you don’t have to move.”

Hiding a yawn behind his hand, Alex asks, “Should we leave before it gets too late? Won’t your dad notice us sneaking back out?”

“We’ve got time,” John tells him, which doesn’t exactly answer Alex’s question. Reaching over, he tugs on a strand of hair that’s come loose from Alex’s ponytail. “Why do you always wear your hair up?”

Alex yawns again, letting John play with the strand. “I don’t know. It gets in the way if I leave it down.”

“Hmm,” John hums, contemplative. “It’s softer than I thought.”

Unsure how to respond to that, Alex lifts his hands, pulling off his hair tie so he can gather all his hair back into a ponytail again, but John stops him.

“Let it down,” he pleads. “Just this once.”

Slowly, Alex lowers his hands, letting his hair fan darkly just past his shoulders. John’s quick to replace Alex’s hands with his own, sliding his fingers through the knots and smoothing down any flyaway bits.

“I’ve always wanted to grow my hair out,” he says, sounding envious.

“Who’s stopping you?” Alex asks. His eyes may have slipped shut again. John’s fingers are gentle and soothing, running along his scalp in soft strokes.

John snorts. “I don’t know that my dad would actually disown me, but it’s definitely a possibility. He has a lot of – beliefs, let’s call them, about what’s acceptable and what’s not.”

“I do go through a lot of conditioner,” Alex admits.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s what my dad is worried about.”

Alex is close to falling asleep to the rhythmic feel of John’s fingers and Herc’s quiet snoring when Laf suddenly clears his throat. John’s hand stills, then falls always. Alex reluctantly opens his eyes.

“It is late,” Lafayette says, his dark eyes unreadable. “We should not shove our luck.”

“Push our luck,” Alex corrects through yet another yawn.

“Wait,” John says, climbing to his feet. Alex is still wrapped in the blanket, but immediately misses John’s warmth. John retreats to his room, returning a minute later with something dark held triumphantly in his hands.

“Here,” he says, handing the bundle to Alex. It’s a dark gray, nearly black hoodie. “This will fit you better for all your heisting needs.”

“I thought this wasn’t a heist,” Alex says slowly.

John shakes his head in exasperation. “Just put it on, yeah?”

Alex tugs off Lafayette’s hoodie to exchange it for John’s while Laf nudges Herc awake, dancing out of the way when Herc swipes at him, not unlike an angry bear. John wasn’t wrong; his hoodie fits Alex a lot better, and has the added bonus of a fleece lining.

“Text me when you make it home,” John demands, supervising as they slip out the window and climb up the window well one at a time.

“Don’t worry about us. We are one with the night,” Lafayette assures him.

“I will leave your ass behind,” Herc threatens.

“We’ll text you,” Alex promises, climbing through the window last.

-

Alex isn’t surprised by the knock on his door the next day, or the way that Lafayette makes himself at home on Alex’s bed when he lets him in.

“So,” Laf says, waggling his eyebrows. “You and John, yes?”

“Me and John, no,” Alex says, looking down at his textbook. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Lafayette laughs in obvious delight. “Oh, you have to lie better than that! Is it a denial, or are you going to pretend there is nothing to deny?”

“Um, the second one. Or maybe the first. Which option gets you to shut up about it?”

“I will never,” Lafayette says, starfishing his arms and legs out to cover Alex’s entire bed, “shut up about it. Our John is positively _smitten_ with you.”

Alex shakes his head. His hair is tied back securely; no rebellious strands fall into his face to distract him, even as he darts a quick look at Laf.  “It’s not like that. _I’m_ not like that.”

There’s an almost imperceptible change in Lafayette’s expression. “Not like what, mon ami?”

The words on the page in front of him swim in and out of focus. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand me. I know you’re better at English than you let on.”

Lafayette is quiet for a moment; long enough that Alex risks another glance at him. “Perhaps I am not the person you should be having this conversation with,” he says at last. “I am not so sure John knows where you stand.”

Alex tries to laugh, but the sound that comes out is all wrong. “Pretty sure John’s not like that, either.”

When Laf speaks again, his words are gentle, bordering on cautious. “Would it be so bad if he were?”

Alex presses his fingers into his eyes, rubbing hard. “It wouldn’t matter. I’m not – I can’t – Laf, I’m already a poor, immigrant, bastard orphan. You think those aren’t enough targets on my back?”

“You talk like this is a conscious choice you can make. Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.”

Dropping his head onto the desk, Alex begs, “Please don’t quote French philosophers at me. My head’s enough of a mess already.”

The floorboards creak as Lafayette gets to his feet. “I will leave you to your homework, yes?” He doesn’t let Alex off that easily, though, pausing to tug on Alex’s hood. “Perhaps let you reflect on the reason you are still wearing John’s sweatshirt.”

Alex was sort of hoping he wouldn’t notice. “It’s not like that,” he repeats.

Lafayette doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe Alex.

-

John’s sentence drags on and on, and since Herc and Laf don’t seem interested in orchestrating another heist or break-in or whatever they’re labeling it, Alex doesn’t see John outside of school and newspaper for weeks. They’re both still on Angelica’s shit list as well, for missing one meeting (in Alex’s case), a week’s worth of meetings (in John’s case), and for being “the absolute stupidest idiots alive, oh my god, why are you even on my staff” (a direct quote).

John’s efforts to defend himself don’t exactly melt Angelica’s ice.

“Angie. When the Fists of Justice are called upon, you can’t just say no.”

“Refer to yourself as the _Fists of Justice_ one more time, so help me god, Laurens, I will show you how far I can wedge this high heel up your ass.”

John just grins. “Kinky.”

“I don’t get why boys think the only way to solve anything is through violence,” Eliza says, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand. “Would it have been that hard to just talk it out?”

“Yes,” John and Alex answer simultaneously. Angelica rolls her eyes before walking away, clearly having had her fill of stupid idiots for the day.

“It’s a matter of honor,” Alex adds, turning in his seat to face Eliza. “And sometimes the only way to defend your honor is to hit someone really, really hard in the face.”

“The fact that you seem to sincerely believe that actually baffles me,” she tells him, but it must not bother her too much, because she keeps smiling at him. Her eyes a warm, deep brown, and though the color isn’t similar to John’s, the kindness in them is.

John plants himself on the desk in front of Alex, forcing Alex to sit back. “Yeah, well, Lee is definitely going to think twice the next time he opens his mouth, so I’d say that justice has been served.” He holds up one of his fists with pride, flexing outlandishly.

“You’re ridiculous,” Eliza says with a laugh.

From across the room, Angelica shoots them a dark look, and Eliza hides her smile by pretending to cough.

“How’s the layout for the prom ad coming along?” Angelica asks pointedly, sharp voice carrying over the side conversations in the room.

“It’ll be ready in time to print,” Eliza reassures her.

John clucks his tongue, making no move to get up from his seat on Alex’s desk. “Kinda early to run that, isn’t it?”

“We actually were supposed to run it last week, but there was drama in the prom committee over the theme and they missed the deadline.”

John makes a face. “I understand those words individually, but when you put them together in that order, I honestly do not comprehend. Drama over a… theme? Which requires an entire committee to pick? People care that much about this kind of thing?”

With a huge sigh, Eliza says, “You have _no_ idea. I heard from Maria that a bunch of junior girls joined the committee and tried to campaign for the theme to be ‘A Winter’s Ball,’ if you can believe.”

“Unbelievable,” John agrees dryly, and laughs when Eliza swats him.

“Isn’t prom usually in the spring?” Alex ventures cautiously.

“Exactly!” Eliza says, gesturing wildly. “Like, that theme makes no _sense_. And anyway, the seniors always pick the theme, so it was a whole thing.”

“Sorry we missed it,” John says, barely holding back another laugh.

“You watch yourself, John Laurens,” Eliza warns him. “I’ll shove my shoe up there right after Angelica’s.”

John opens his mouth to reply, but Alex beats him to the punch, mostly to save him from himself. “I wouldn’t doubt her, man. I don’t think she’s the type to make idle threats.”

Eliza beams at him. “I promise you, I’m not.”

-

Unsurprisingly, John doesn’t manage to get his article done before Angelica kicks them out for the day so she can lock up behind them.

“What are you doing right now?” he asks Alex, hitching his backpack over one shoulder as they walk to his car.

“Like, right this second?” Alex clarifies.

John shrugs. “Tonight or tomorrow. Preferably tonight. I think Angelica might actually sacrifice her shoe to the cause if I show up tomorrow with a half-finished article.”

“Oh,” Alex says. “You need help with it?”

“Please,” John tells him, unlocking the car as they reach the parking lot. “I need someone to keep me from getting distracted.”

There are few tasks Alex is less suited for, but that’s John’s problem to figure out. “Let me text Laf to tell the Martha I’ll be home late.”

John’s smile could rival the sun. “I owe you, man.”

There’s no sneaking in this time; John parks his fancy car in the garage and they walk through a spotless mudroom into an equally spotless, almost spartan kitchen.

“Your dad won’t mind if I’m here?” Alex asks, following John’s lead in kicking off his shoes before stepping onto the pristine kitchen tiles.  

“The real question is if he’ll notice.” Shrugging out of his blazer, which he drapes carelessly over the back of a chair, John makes a beeline for the fridge. “Coke okay?” he asks from behind the open door. ~~~~

“Yeah, whatever’s fine. But seriously, man, I don’t want to get you in more trouble if—”

Letting the door shut behind him, John walks over with two cans of coke, handing one to Alex. “Don’t worry about it. He won’t care if it’s for something school related. He’s always on my ass about extracurriculars anyway.”

All the same, John leads them downstairs to the basement. He bypasses the couch, heading straight into to his room. Alex stops short in the doorway, taking it all in.

The mess in John’s room puts Lafayette’s to shame. Somehow there are clothes bursting out of both his closet and a large dresser, despite also covering most of the horizontal services, and even some of the vertical ones. He’s got a bookcase with no books on it, although there are books stacked in haphazard piles around the floor (also covered in clothes). The bookcase itself holds an eclectic assortment of junk; everything from trophies to electronics to an inexplicable ukulele. Crooked posters are tacked to the walls without any apparent rhyme or reason, and there’s a half dead plant in one corner. It’s like the entire house’s personality has been shoved into John’s room.

John pushes a pile of yet more clothes off his desk chair and onto the floor with a loud thump that suggests something else might’ve been buried within them, and gestures for Alex to sit.

“You can use the desktop, if you wanna work on your own shit at all.”

Alex nudges a dog-eared stack of comics out of the way until there’s enough space to set his coke down on the desk. “You sure? Don’t you need to finish writing?”

Unearthing a laptop from the mess, John settles on the bed, shoving aside his dark gray comforter. “I got you covered, man.”

Right, of course he’s also got a laptop. Alex nudges the mouse until the desktop computer’s screen blinks awake, then busies himself logging into his email and drive accounts to buy himself a moment to process everything.

Only a couple of minutes pass before John clears his throat, diverting Alex’s attention. “Hey, so. I might need your help with some of my research,” he says, all big, pleading eyes. “I hate that citation crap.”

Alex snorts. “Don’t tell me you’ve just been making shit up this whole time.” Nodding at the laptop, he says, “Let me see what you’ve got written so far.”

John hesitates. “Okay, but…”

“Yeah?”

Shaking his head, John mumbles, “Never mind.” Decisively, he swivels the laptop towards Alex, and Alex takes the hint, clearing himself a spot on the bed to sit next to John. He quickly reads through John’s rough draft, hyper aware of how close they’re sitting. He can’t get his conversation with Lafayette out of his head, but John doesn’t act any different than normal. Mostly he just worries his lip between his teeth as Alex reads.

“Well?” he asks when Alex finally sits back. His lip is going to bleed if he doesn’t quit chewing on it.

“Your intro is good, and the second point is pretty strong, but I think you need to back up your first point with some more statistics,” Alex tells him, already mentally re-writing a few of John’s lines. Giving John a side-long glance, he asks, “Is Angelica really going to let you run this?”

“It’s a public interest piece,” John says too quickly, almost veering into defensive territory. “And I’ve got a few student quotes I’m going to include, too.”

That surprises Alex. “Did you actually find students at Lake Forest in favor of a gender-neutral bathroom?”

“Well…,” John says, dragging out the word. “I mean, I found a few who weren’t totally against it, and used some choice selections of their quotes. It’s all going to be under pseudonyms anyway.” He sounds defeated when he adds, “No one wants their name attached to this.”

“Well, that’s bullshit,” Alex says, trying and failing to keep the frustration out of his voice. “It should be a law that all schools have a gender-neutral bathroom. I mean, it’s basically a civil right. The fact that you even have to write an article arguing for it is insane to me.”

Alex hadn’t realized just how much tension John’s shoulders were holding until he lets them sag in relief. “You really think that?” he asks. His lip is raw, but he finally releases it. “There’s not a lot of people at Lake Forest who care about shit like this.”

Nudging his shoulder against John’s, Alex says, “Of course, man. Let’s find you some stats to back this up.”

John presses back, settling his weight fully against Alex’s side. “Thanks, dude. You can totally have the byline if you want.”

Alex shoots him a quizzical look, but John’s eyes are on the screen. “Don’t you want credit? You’ve written most of it already, and you were the one who did the interviews.”

With a sigh, John says, “It’s just – my dad, you know? He’s not exactly the most open-minded person. I’m not – I mean, it’s not like I’m even trans or anything, but if he saw I’d written something like this, he’d—” He releases another noisy sigh. “Maybe someday when I’m not living under his roof, it’ll be different, and I can just be…”

“Yourself,” Alex finishes, when John trails off.

One side of John’s mouth pulls up into a not-quite smile. “Yeah.”

John hasn’t moved away from his side; Alex wouldn’t have to do much more than turn his face and lean in a little for his nose to brush John’s cheek. His heart thuds even thinking about it, but it’s – it’s not John in particular, it’s the proximity in general.

Alex’s breath catches when John’s the one to turn his head. Out of his periphery vision, Alex watches John’s lashes lower, but he can’t tell if John’s gaze has dropped to his mouth or another more innocuous target.

It turns out that it doesn’t matter. Clearing his throat, John shifts away, focusing his attention back on the laptop. “So, for point one, what were you thinking we could add for stats?” he asks.

“Oh. Um,” Alex says, gathering the pieces of his scattered mind back together. Climbing off John’s bed, he retreats to the desktop computer, pulling up Google and putting his entire focus into the work. “Well, to start with…”

-

When John’s dad finally ungrounds him, John insists they celebrate.

“At last, I’m a free man! I want to taste fresh air, I want to jump into a fountain, I wanna—”

“It’s barely March, dude. The fountains are frozen,” Hercules points out.

“And you’ve been breathing fresh air this entire time, non?” Lafayette adds. “You were not actually locked up. I think you went outside every day.”

John scoffs. “Why are you guys such haters?”

There are still ten minutes before the bell before first period rings, and the hallway is starting to fill up with students. Alex has built up an immunity to Lake Forest blue; the overwhelming amount of vibrant color hardly hurts his eyes anymore. “What do you actually wanna do, then?” he asks John, leaning against the locker behind him.

“Well,” John says, expression sunny once more, “I heard there’s gonna be a party at the Schuyler’s on Saturday—”

“Uh oh, did I hear my name?”

Lafayette pulls Eliza out of the way of passing students and into a side hug. She’s short enough that the top of her head fits neatly under his chin. “Eliza, _ma chérie, we were just talking about your beautiful face.”_

Head tipped back, Eliza laughs loudly. “Oh, I’m sure. You’re all terrible flirts.”

Lafayette squeezes her tighter. “Non, it is true! You interrupted before we could discuss the charms of your personality, and the—”

“Stop!” Eliza says, still laughing as she swats at Lafayette’s chest. “You think you can get away with murder with that accent.”

“And yet he leaves us to bury the bodies,” Herc laments.

“Okay, I’m leaving before I become an accessary to whatever crimes you guys have been committing.” Eliza slips out from under Lafayette’s arm, but John stops her before she can walk away.

“Saturday?” he asks hopefully.

Eliza’s gaze flicks from John to Alex, her brown eyes mischievous. “As long as you bring Alex.”

John drapes one arm over Alex’s shoulders. “Oh, he’ll be there.”

“Will I?” Alex asks, grimacing when John steps on his foot.

“We’ll all be there,” John promises.

Eliza shakes her head in amusement. “And I’m sure I won’t regret inviting you.”

-

Naturally, Saturday evening finds them at the Waffle Shack before the party, a reluctant Alex picking at his waffle (with regular syrup, and an arm around his plate to block Hercules from adding an orange-flavored variety).

“Okay,” John says, pulling what appears to be a flask from his pocket. “I was only able to sneak enough for each of us to have a shot or two without my dad noticing.”

Herc makes grabby hands, and John passes it to him under the table. Discreetly, he pours about a shot’s worth of clear liquid into his coke before handing it to Lafayette, who follows suit, topping off his own drink.

The flask makes it back to John, who turns to offer it to Alex.

Alex takes it cautiously, sniffing the contents. “What is it?”

“Vodka,” John tells him. “80 proof. Well.” He pauses, thinking. “It might be a little lower than that. I can’t actually remember how many times I’ve watered it down so my dad wouldn’t notice how much is missing.”

“RIP,” Herc says, stirring his drink before taking a sip. He makes a thoughtful face, considering. “Definitely still pretty strong, though.”

Alex tips the flask, pouring a little into his drink before handing it back to John. “Um, what happens if someone notices?” he asks, stirring slowly with his straw.

“That is the beauty of Waffle Shack,” Lafayette says, knocking back a healthy swallow of his vodka coke. “No one cares as long as you do not flaunt it.”

“Honestly, you could probably start a Fight Club here, and the staff would be indifferent,” John says, dumping the rest of the vodka into his drink before screwing the cap back on and slipping it into his pocket again. He raises his glass. “To freedom!”

Laughing, Herc says, “To John’s dad’s bottomless liquor cabinet!”

“To the four of us!” Lafayette adds.

“I’ll drink to that,” Alex agrees, clinking his glass against the others’.

-

The Schuyler house is bigger than the Washington’s, with a large, sweeping circular drive and carefully tended landscaping. The first floor boasts tall, arched windows that spill golden light onto the large front lawn, and the music is audible from the curb.

“What are the chances this party gets busted?” Alex asks as they make the way up the drive. It’s lined with expensive cars parked bumper to bumper, hardly the picture of subtly.

“In this zip code? Unlikely,” Herc says. “Unless there’s a fight or something.”

“Fuck, I hope so,” John says. He jumps into the air, whooping loudly, and Lafayette drags him back by the collar.

“You are an untamed animal. Have you been grounded for so long you’ve forgotten how to behave in civilized society?”

John just laughs, pulling out of Lafayette’s grip and bounding to the front door.

Inside, the music is even louder. Alex sticks close to Hercules, as he’s the tallest and the broadest, and the crowd parts easily for him. Hercules finds his way unerringly to the kitchen, where there is both a keg and a number of bottles of various hard liquor lining the granite counter.

“What do you want?” John says, directly in Alex’s ear, and Alex nearly jumps.

“Um, whatever. Beer’s fine.” Alex is feeling the vodka already, and has a hard enough time holding his tongue (and fists) in check when he’s sober.

John nods. “I got you, bro.” He elbows his way to the keg, pushing a couple underclassmen out of the way. Expertly filling two cups, he hands one to Alex, who takes a small sip.

“Alexander,” another voice cuts in, and Alex turns to find Burr standing in the kitchen doorway, holding his own red cup. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Aaron Burr,” he replies, taking a much bigger sip this time. It’s more of a gulp, really. “I could say the same for you.”

“Well!” John’s face lights up with uncontained glee as he spots Burr. “Burr, please tell me you brought Theo. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her, you know.”

“Your loss,” Burr says, the way his fingers tighten slightly around his cup the only sign of his annoyance. “But I’m so glad to see your father’s let you out of the house again.”

“You and me both, Burr,” John tells him, clapping him hard on the shoulder. The line between smile and grimace on Burr’s face blurs.

Nodding to Burr’s cup, Alex says, “You’re not drinking, are you, Burr? I can’t believe you of all people would break the law. Seems too risky for someone like you.”

John laughs. “Nah, see, he’s probably old enough to drink. You’re one of those narc cops, aren’t you? Going undercover and shit to get the rest of us in trouble.”

Burr doesn’t physically roll his eyes, but Alex is pretty sure he spiritually rolls them. “You two have a nice night. I’m out.” He edges past John and through the kitchen, exiting through another doorway that must lead to the back of the house.

Bumping his drink against Alex’s, making beer slosh out of both cups, John says, “Cheers to that.”

Alex lifts his cup to his mouth, drinking deeply.

-

Both the noise and the crowd make Alex weirdly anxious, and he downs his first drink too quickly. Clutching his empty cup, he flounders for a moment. John’s been drawn into a boisterous conversation with a couple guys Alex recognizes from school, but whose names he can’t remember. Herc and Laf are nowhere to be seen.

Catching John’s eye, he tips his head towards the kitchen and holds up his glass. John nods, waving him on.

There are only a handful of people in the kitchen, and Alex takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Walking to the sink, he turns the tap to cold and refills his cup, gulping down water until his head clears a little.

Someone taps him gently on the shoulder, and Alex turns, hastily wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“Hi,” Eliza says, smiling brightly. “You made it.”

Alex can’t help smiling back. “I did. Now I just have to hope Angelica won’t kick me out.”

Scrunching her nose, Eliza tells him, “She’s not really as prickly as she acts, you know. I think you’d be surprised how much she actually likes you.”

“I’m surprised she’s thrown such a huge party,” Alex says, draining the last of his water. “A house full of drunken teenagers doesn’t really seem like her idea of a good time.”

“Oh, well, she – _Peggy_.” Eliza cuts herself off, eyes narrowing at something – someone – over Alex’s shoulder.

Pivoting slightly, Alex spots a younger girl in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed defiantly over her chest.

“I’m _thirsty_ , Eliza,” she says. “You and Angelica can’t make me stay upstairs all night.”

“We certainly can,” Eliza volleys back. “Get your drink and then back up to your room.”

Peggy’s chin tilts rebelliously. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I will tell mom and dad about _you-know-what_ as soon as they get back.” Eliza’s voice is steel. “I’m serious, Pegs.”

With a sigh loud enough to be heard over the music, Peggy gives in. “Ugh. _Fine_.”

Eyeing Alex with open curiosity as she crosses the kitchen, Peggy pushes up on her tip-toes to reach the cabinet where the glasses are kept, taking her time as she fills it with some juice from the fridge. Eliza watches her closely; Alex doesn’t miss the way Peggy’s gaze darts towards the bottles of alcohol on the kitchen counter a few times before she decides it’s a losing battle. She finally retreats with her juice through the door and up the stairs, if the sound of pounding feet is anything to go by.

“Your little sister, I take it?” Alex asks with amusement.

“My parents are going to have their hands full with that one,” Eliza declares, still watching the doorway with distrust. After a moment, she turns back to Alex, bright smile back in place. “Anyway. What are you drinking?”

“Um,” Alex says, scratching the back of his neck.

Eliza immediately reaches for his empty cup, pulling it out of his unresisting grip. “I’ll make you a drink that will blow your mind.”

Huffing out a laugh, Alex waves her on. “By all means.”

Pouring at least five different ingredients into his cup, Eliza actually garnishes her concoction with a cherry before handing it back to Alex. “Tell me what you think,” she demands.

Alex takes a slow sip. It’s sweet at first, but burns his throat on the way down. He coughs, pressing a hand to his chest, and Eliza grins. “It’s got a bit of a kick to it.”

“Yeah, I felt that.”

With a laugh, Eliza leans over and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “Let me know when you’re ready for another, yeah?”

The alcohol slows his brain, but not his actions. Alex reaches out, catching Eliza’s wrist before she can leave the kitchen. “You’re not going to abandon me here by myself, are you?”

She arches a dark eyebrow. “Didn’t you come with the rest of the Lost Boys?”

“That’s an interesting analogy,” Alex tells her, taking another drink. It doesn’t burn as bad this time. “Who’s Peter Pan in this scenario?”

He earns a laugh from Eliza, which isn’t challenging, but enjoyable none the less. She leans close to tell him in a conspiratorial voice, “I think the real question you need to ask yourself is who’s Wendy in this scenario?”

“I’ll bite,” Alex says, holding her gaze over the rim of his cup. “Are you Wendy?”

Eliza grins at him with a perfect white smile. “Nope. I’m the mermaid trying to drown her.”

It’s Alex’s turn to laugh in surprise. “I had no idea you were so blood thirsty.”

“Just one of my many charms,” Eliza says, looking pleased with herself. She lingers this time, letting Alex draw her into conversation. He sips steadily at his drink as they talk, surprised to find it empty in what feels like no time at all.

“Mine’s empty too,” Eliza laughs. “I’ll make us both another round.”

Alex has no idea if she puts the same ingredients in, but the second drink hardly burns at all. “This is gonna kill me, isn’t it?” he asks. “I’m totally Wendy.”

Eliza makes a sound halfway between a wheeze and a laugh. Lacing her fingers with Alex’s, she tugs him towards the doorway. “Let’s find somewhere to sit for a minute. My head’s starting to spin.”

Somewhere to sit turns out to be an empty downstairs bedroom with a double bed. Both the bedspread and framed art on the walls are blandly generic, and Alex guesses it’s a guest room. He leaves the door cracked behind them, but they’re still far enough from the source of the music that all he can hear is the relentless pulsing beat of it.

Eliza falls back on the bed, her legs dangling over the edge and her hair a dark halo around her head. The skirt of her blue dress has ridden up just far enough to expose her slightly knobby knees, and Alex gently tugs it down to cover them, sitting on the bed next to her.

“Such a gentleman,” Eliza teases, pushing her hair back from her forehead. “Most boys would try to move it in the other direction.”

Sitting up is hard, so Alex follows Eliza’s lead, stretching out next to her on the mattress with his legs hanging off the side. “Guess I’m not most boys.”

“You’re not like any boy I’ve met,” Eliza tells him, her voice soft. She rolls onto her side to face him. Alex can only manage turning his head. Her face is very close to his. It’s hard to focus.

Lifting her hand, Eliza rests her soft, dry palm against Alex’s cheek, her thumb brushing just under his eye. “Maybe I am Wendy,” she admits.

Alex’s pulse kicks up. “Peter breaks her heart in the end, you know.”

“I know.”

For a long moment, neither one of them moves. Alex is hyper aware of the slow movement of Eliza’s thumb over his cheekbone, of each shallow breath she takes, of his own pounding heart, but each seems disconnected somehow, pieces of a puzzle his mind can’t slot together.

Eliza is the one to close the distance between them, a gulf of inches easily crossed. Alex has just enough time to make a choice: to shift away, let her mouth glance innocently off his cheek, or stay still and allow this kiss to happen.

Alex doesn’t move.

The first touch of Eliza’s mouth is soft, almost hesitant. Alex’s eyes slip shut, which makes his head spin faster, but the gentle pressure of Eliza’s lips grounds him. He’s over his head in an instant, a drowning man, but he doesn’t pull away.

Not until the door bangs open, startling them both.

“Alex, you—oh shit.”

Alex opens his eyes, slowly pushes himself upright. John is standing in the doorway, staring at him with an expression of complete shock.

There is a long, awkward silence. John’s the first to find words. “Clearly I’m interrupting. Sorry.” He turns on his heel, walking away without a backward glance.

When Alex looks back at Eliza, she’s got her face covered with both hands. “Shouldn’t we get a grace period before our bad decisions catch up to us?” she moans, the words slightly muffled.

Alex’s mouth is suddenly dry. “I should – I need to talk to John.”

“I’m going to put myself to bed before I kiss anyone else my sister warned me about,” Eliza decides.

When she makes no move to get up, Alex hesitates. “This bed?”

Eliza waves a hand around vaguely, draping her other arm over her eyes. “Why not?”

“I – I’m sorry,” Alex tells her. “I shouldn’t have—”

Lifting her hand, Eliza slides it over Alex’s mouth. “Shh. Don’t apologize. It was a good kiss.”

Alex’s face feels hot. He nudges Eliza’s fingers enough to get out, “I’ll close the door behind me.”

Eliza lets her hand drop. Her mouth is still smiling, but her dark eyes are unreadable. “Okay. Thanks.”

Keeping his word, Alex eases the door shut behind him. In the hallway, he doesn’t know which way to turn. He eventually opts to retrace his steps, winding up back in the kitchen.

It’s nearly empty, and Alex does a double take at the only other occupant. “Burr? I thought you left.”

“Nope,” Burr says, pumping the last of the beer from the keg. It dribbles sadly into his cup. “Just avoiding drama. You should give it a try sometime.”

“Fuck you,” Alex tells him, but without any real heat, too preoccupied to fully mean it. “Have you seen John?”

Burr jerks his thumb towards the front of the house. “He looked like he was in a hurry.” Cocking his head, he gives Alex a closer look. “Why do I get the feeling that it somehow has something to do with you?”

“It’s easy to judge when you never put yourself out there, isn’t it?” Alex shoots back. “Maybe you’ll never fall behind that way, but you’ll never get ahead either.”

Burr takes a slow sip of his beer. “Yeah, you let me know how that strategy works out for you, man.”

“I’ll be waiting for you at the finish line,” Alex promises, then stalks out of the kitchen to try to find John, leaving Burr behind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

> [gender_neutral_bathrooms.doc]
> 
> **UNTITLED – _DRAFT_ **
> 
> By Anonymous
> 
> Lake Forest Prep has few deficits as a school, particularly for college-bound students. With rigorous academics and plentiful extracurriculars, most students are given every opportunity to succeed. But not all students are afforded the same treatment. Some don’t have even the most basic of privileges: using a bathroom designated for their gender. [ _comment by a. ham_ : SLAM DUNK!!!]
> 
> There are no official statistics on how many students at Lake Forest identify as trans or nonbinary, or even as anything other than straight. [ _comment by a. ham_ : okay maybe find some national stats to include here and draw the conclusion that statistically there are students who fall in this category at Lake Forest, even if they’re not out] But the chances that there are no students who fit this category are laughably small. Furthermore, it’s not on these students to come forward and ask for a safe space. It’s on the school to provide it, no questions asked. [ _comment by a. ham_ : TAKE NO PRISONERS!!]
> 
> Designating a gender-neutral bathroom also contributes to a culture of tolerance, and normalizes the fact that not all students fit into a binary system. According to research completed by…

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND PEGGY!!!
> 
> anyway how many words do i need to write before i can tag this slow burn? whatever, the lams fireworks are coming next chapter, i totally promise. also “Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point" translates to "The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing" which is a quote by Blaise Pascal that lafayette keeps in his back pocket for difficult sexual orientation conversations, i guess
> 
> as always, thanks for the comments/kudos. very appreciated xoxo


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you could let me inside your heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the good news: this chapter is up a day early! the bad news: if my word count keeps getting out of hand (I’ve been aiming for 5-6k per chapter, and the last two are 8k and 9k respectively, my god) then we might be looking at updates every 2 weeks. 
> 
> anyway, warnings for the consequences of underage drinking, a couple references to vomiting, and the usual angst.

Alex is fully expecting the knock on his door, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to lift his pounding head from where it’s currently buried under his pillow to respond.

There’s a pause, but Lafayette is not one to give up easily. The knocking comes again, slightly louder, and Alex sighs.

“Yeah?”

The door opens with a low creak. “Alex, honey, are you alright?”

Hastily, Alex sits up, dislodging the pillow and pushing his tangled mess of hair back from his face. “Martha. Sorry, I thought you were Laf. Uh. Gilbert. I was just – we had kind of a late night last night.” He winces. He and Laf got home well after curfew, sneaking upstairs in the dark and trying with limited success not to make too much noise.

“Gil’s not feeling well either,” Martha says, leaning her hip against the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob. “What did you boys get up to last night?”

Alex’s stomach twists, and for once, it’s not from anxiety. Well, not entirely from anxiety. He swallows. “We were – we went to the Waffle Shack. I have no idea why they like it so much,” he says, being as truthful as he can. As an afterthought, he adds, “Well, the waffles are pretty good, I guess.”

“Uh huh.” Martha tsks. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you both got a case of food poisoning.”

Alex latches onto the lie. “My stomach does feel a little queasy after that waffle I ate.”

Face sympathetic, Martha asks, “And what about the alcohol you drank?”

Ouch. He walked right into that one. Alex manages to hold his tongue, but his face betrays him, flushing hot. “Um,” he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair has fallen out of its ponytail completely, and likely resembles a snarled, black bird’s nest. “What did Laf—Gilbert say? About that particular, um. Topic you’ve brought up.”

Dryly, Martha tells him, “Mostly he just threw up.”

“Ah.” Alex’s hair really is a hopeless tangle and he gives up trying to comb his fingers through it. He presses one hand to his forehead instead, though it does nothing to help his headache. Between that and his stomach, it’s hard to get his thoughts in order, to find an exit strategy.

“I don’t think Abigail works on Saturdays,” he tells Martha quietly, resigned to his fate, but at least hoping to prolong the inevitable.

“No, I don’t think so either,” she says slowly, a question in her voice. “But I don’t need her permission to ground you.”

To – “You’re going to ground me?”

Martha narrows her eyes. “You sound suspiciously happy about that.”

“No, I just thought – you’re not going to tell Abigail? I know you’re still going through the licensing process, and you’re under no obligation to keep m—”

Stepping into the room, Martha holds up her hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Alex, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I don’t want you to think for even a second that George and I are thinking about asking you to leave our home over something like this.”

Alex sucks in a stuttering breath. Releases it slowly. “Oh.”

Martha sits at the foot of his bed, her hand resting on the knob of Alex’s ankle through the comforter. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not condoning underage drinking, and we’re certainly not going to look the other way, but we are fully equipped to handle this in-house.” She offers Alex a smile, which Alex weakly returns. “Believe me, this is not the first morning I’ve found Gilbert with his head buried in a toilet bowl, acting like he didn’t wake us up in the middle of the previous night banging around the house.”

Alex winces again. “I’m going to go ahead and guess we were as quiet as we thought we were.”

“Not by a long shot.” Patting Alex’s ankle, Martha pushes to her feet. “You’re both grounded for a week, and you’ll have an earlier curfew for the next month – 8pm on weeknights, 10pm on weekends. That’s non-negotiable.”

Nodding, Alex agrees, “That’s fair.”

One of Martha’s eyebrows arches. “Really? No argument? I think even Gilbert tried to say something in his defense between all the retching.”

This feels like another trap. Alex pulls on his lip. “I thought – you said it was non-negotiable?”

Martha gives him a long, searching look. “Gilbert usually takes that as his cue to start negotiating, but I don’t think I’m being fair, comparing the two of you.”

Alex doesn’t know how to respond to that; can’t come up with a decent attempt with the way his head is still trying to split itself in two. Licking his lips with a dry tongue, he asks, “Um. You wouldn’t happen to have any Tylenol or ibuprofen, would you?”

With a fond sort of amusement, Martha tells him, “Hallway bathroom, second drawer down.”

“Thanks,” Alex mumbles, pushing back the covers so he can climb out of bed and retreat immediately to the hallway bathroom.

Martha lingers in the doorway, though, and Alex pauses with one foot touching the floor.

“Just so you know,” Martha says. “George and I have finished the licensing process. We’re in this for the long-haul, Alex.”

He wants to believe her so badly his chest aches with it, but he knows better.

The long-haul is never long enough. Not when it comes to Alex.

-

Lafayette doesn’t surface until 4pm, and even then, it’s only to throw himself on Alex’s bed with a low moan. “Mistakes… were made.”

“Do you mean the drinking too much, or the getting caught?” Alex asks, shifting his legs out from under Lafayette’s heavy weight.

“Yes,” Lafayette says. He rolls over, resting his head against Alex’s thigh and looking up at him with sad eyes. “I’m never drinking again.”

Alex flips the page of his book, though he hasn’t absorbed any of the words he’s pretending to read. “How many times have you said that before?”

“I mean it this time,” Lafayette insists. “I am flipping the leaf completely over.”

“Turning over a new leaf,” Alex corrects. Eyes still on the page in front of him, he asks as casually as he can manage, “Hey, uh, you haven’t heard from Herc or, um, John, have you?”

Lafayette’s sudden silence speaks louder than any words. Alex risks a glance at him.

“Herc, I have heard from, yes,” he says slowly.

When he doesn’t say anything else, Alex reluctantly prompts, “And John?”

Lafayette shifts a little, wriggling until he’s resting enough weight on Alex’s legs to pin him in place like some kind of overgrown housecat trying to fit in his lap.

“You’re not subtle, man,” Alex tells him, giving up all pretenses of reading.

“Neither are you or John,” Lafayette retorts. “Did something happen last night? Herc tells me John found his own way home.”

Alex sighs. “Nothing happened between me and John, no.”

“But something happened between you and someone else, non?” Moving quicker than he should be able to with the way he’s been milking his hangover, Lafayette snatches Alex’s hands, examining his knuckles. “Hmm. Not a fight, I don’t think.”

Jerking his hands back, Alex scoffs. “No, I didn’t _punch_ anyone at the Schuyler’s party, god.”

Lafayette is unrepentant. “But you did something. Something John knows. Something that upset him?”

“I might’ve – kiss’dliza,” Alex mumbles.

“Mon ami. I know English is not my first language, but those were not real words.”

Alex releases a loud sigh, looking up at the ceiling. “I might’ve kissed Eliza, alright? And John might’ve, sort of, walked in on it.”

Lafayette whistles, eyes wide. “Merde.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, Alex says, “Weirdly enough, that’s exactly what John said. Only, you know, in English.”

Propping himself up into a sitting position, Lafayette punches Alex in the shoulder. “What are you doing kissing Eliza, you imbécile?”

“Ow! Hey, not cool.” Alex rubs at his shoulder, though Lafayette’s hit wasn’t all that hard. Glaring at Laf, who glares right back, he says, “I don’t know, man, she’s pretty and I was drunk and her mouth was right there! It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Lafayette’s expression says exactly what he thinks of Alex’s idea. “I hope that you know that Angelica is going to kill you.”

“Okay, first of all,” Alex holds up his finger for emphasis. “For the record, it was Eliza who kissed me—”

“But you kissed her back!”

“—and we both knew right away that it was a mistake!”

When they’re both sitting on the bed, Lafayette only has an inch or two on Alex without the advantage of his long legs. In an act of mercy, he doesn’t use his height as a weapon, letting his shoulders slump in a slouch that puts him at eye level with Alex.

Of course, his next words hit Alex harder than his punch. “Would you have kissed her if you weren’t drunk?”

Alex shakes his head. “I don’t know. Does it matter? She’s too good for me. It wouldn’t have happened if we weren’t drinking.”

Lafayette’s shoulders snap back as he bristles in outrage. “Nonsense! She would be lucky to have you!”

Drawing his knees up to his chest, Alex lets his head fall forward until it rests on his kneecaps. “Okay, make up your mind, dude. Do you want me to get with Eliza or John? You’re giving me all kinds of mixed messages here.”

Lafayette places his hand on top of Alex’s head, pushing Alex’s forehead up with the heel of his palm until Alex is forced to meet his eye. “Eliza _or_ John would be lucky to have you. I want you to believe that.”

“What are you, my therapist?” Alex tries to joke, but Laf’s not smiling. Ducking out from under Lafayette’s hand, Alex gets to his feet. “Look, I know your heart is in the right place, or whatever, but we really don’t need to have this conversation.”

Lafayette makes no move to get off Alex’s bed. “What conversation are we not having?”

“The one where – okay, no, you can’t trick me into saying it.”

Holding out his hands, palms up, Lafayette replies, “Who’s tricking, mon chou? I am simply asking.”

It’s not easy to hold Lafayette’s eye when he says it, but Alex squares his shoulders and does it anyway. “We both know I’m just a foster kid. This is all temporary. People like Eliza and John – people like you, people like Herc, like fucking Aaron Burr – your futures are a matter of _when_. Of _where_. Of – of _how far_. Mine’s a matter of _if_.”

Lafayette’s mouth twists into a frown. “That makes no sense. What do you—”

Alex cuts him off. “Don’t pretend you don’t get what I’m saying. Yours used to be an _if_ too, before the Washingtons adopted you. Didn’t it?”

Lafayette opens his mouth like he wants to keep arguing, but then thinks better of it. After a long moment, he finally says, “I know how to choose my battles, mon ami. I will concede this one.”

Letting himself sink back into his desk chair, Alex drops his shoulders in relief.

“But I will win the war,” Lafayette promises. Finally hopping off Alex’s bed, he bends to smack a kiss to the side of Alex’s head. “And that will make us both winners. You will see.”

“Whatever, man,” Alex says, but can’t help meeting Lafayette’s bright smile with a small one of his own.

-

Being grounded means Alex can’t leave the house, but it doesn’t mean he’s lost his phone privileges.

No matter how many times he checks his phone, though, his last text to John remains unanswered.

**Hey man I couldn’t find you last night did you get home ok? Call me**

He goes to bed early on Saturday, but lies awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling.

-

Monday goes like this:

Alex almost comes to blows with Jefferson in AP Gov over tariffs, which is not even a topic Alex has strong feelings about, except apparently when Jefferson talks about it in his smug drawl. He takes Laf’s advice and suggests to Jefferson that they step outside, which makes Jefferson laugh condescendingly and Mr. Jay pinch the bridge of his nose. It’s Burr’s sardonic look from across the room that reminds Alex stop and breathe for a second.

He won’t give Burr the satisfaction of watching him fail again, even if he nearly bites through his tongue to hold himself in check.

Lunch should be a reprieve, but there’s an empty chair where John should be sitting. Setting his tray on the table, Alex sinks into his usual seat. Neither Herc nor Laf immediately volunteers why John’s missing, so Alex has to suffer the indignity of asking.

“Oh,” Herc says, eyes immediately flicking to Lafayette, who crams a giant bite of salad into his mouth. “He had… homework?”

“Homework,” Alex repeats flatly. “You sound a little unsure about that.”

Hercules huffs. “I’m not John’s keeper, bro. He said he needed to go to the library and that he’d miss lunch. Dunno why else you’d go there.”

“And his phone’s what? Not working? Suddenly doesn’t get reception?”

This time, Herc and Laf very specifically do not look at each other. Laf’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and he coughs a couple times before he can speak. “He, ah, dropped his phone, I believe. Something about a toilet? It was all very uncouth.”

What little appetite Alex had is gone. “Right. Well, it sounds like the three of you have figured out how to stay in touch just fine despite all the uncouthness.” Picking up his tray, Alex gets to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Lafayette demands. “Lunch has barely started!”

“I’m sure between the two of you, you can come up with plenty of plausible excuses,” Alex tells him.

“Alex, wait—” Lafayette starts to stay, but Alex doesn’t stick around to hear the rest. Winding his way through the crowded cafeteria, he stops just long enough to dump his uneaten food in the garbage before slipping out the door. The library’s out, in case John really is hiding out there from Alex, but the bathrooms near the chem lab are usually pretty empty.

It won’t the first lunch period in his life that Alex has spent holed up in the bathroom, wishing he was anywhere else.

-

John blows off newspaper after school, completely disappearing after 7th period lets out, which shouldn’t be a surprise, but somehow catches Alex completely off guard.

Eliza catches his eye as he drops into an empty desk, giving him a helpless sort of look paired with a shrug. As soon as Angelica is done briefing them, she makes her way over to Alex.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” he says back, rubbing at the nape of his neck.

Eliza jumps right in. “About Friday night.”

“Oh, we’re doing this right now. Okay.”

Scrunching her nose at him, Eliza says, “I refuse to let things get all awkward between us, so let’s just clear the air, alright?”

Alex tucks a wisp of hair behind one ear, smoothing it back. “Consider it cleared.”

“It’s cute how you think you can wiggle off the hook that easily.” Grabbing him by the elbow, Eliza steers him towards the door with a surprisingly strong grip.

Angelica interrupts before they get more than a couple steps. “Where do you two think you’re going?”

Eliza’s grip tightens and Alex represses a squeak of pain. “I need to talk to Alex. We’ll be back in a minute, Ang.”

Arms crossed over her chest, Angelica silently watches them go, judgment written all over her face.

As soon as Eliza closes the door behind them, Alex whispers hurriedly, “Does she know? Is she mad? Is she going to kill me?”

“No, more of a low-grade annoyance at the world in general, and the jury’s still out,” Eliza says, answering each of his questions in turn.

“Wait,” Alex says. “If she doesn’t know, then why is murder still on the table?”

“My sister has a sixth sense about these kinds of things,” Eliza tells him ominously, but before Alex can ask the half a dozen follow up questions that kind of response warrants, she plunges ahead. “Look, can we both agree that what happened Friday shouldn’t have happened? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re incredibly—” Eliza makes a vague sort of gesture, wriggling her fingers in Alex’s general direction, which doesn’t give Alex any sort of meaningful context whatsoever “—but I’m stupid enough to get mixed up with a boy like you.”

“A boy like me,” Alex repeats, the back of his neck hot.

“Oh, don’t _look_ at me like that! Yes, a boy like you – too charming for your own good, flirts with anything that moves, a trail of broken hearts behind you. Am I off base here?”

So far off base from what Alex was expecting her to say that he flounders for a moment. “I – yes? What—”

Placing one hand on his shoulder for balance, Eliza presses up onto her toes to kiss Alex’s cheek. “I’ve got your number, Hamilton. You’ll have to find another heart to break.”

“Hold up,” Alex starts to say, but Eliza’s apparently not going to give up control of this conversation that easily.

“We should get back before Angelica really does plot your murder.” Opening the door, she steps back inside the computer lab. “Hey, by the way, where’s John? You two are usually attached at the hip. Is he out sick or something?”

“Or something,” Alex mutters, following on her heels. A thought suddenly occurs to him, and his stomach flips. “Hey, uh. You wouldn’t be able to give me a ride home, would you?”

Eliza grins wickedly at him. “That’s Angelica’s call.”

-

Angelica is a better driver than John, but the ride home feels just as dangerous with Alex trapped in a car with two Schuyler sisters. No one murders him though, and he even coaxes a laugh or two out of Angelica, which earns him a couple of smug looks from Eliza in the rearview mirror.

His buoyed mood sinks the second he walks through the door, however. Alex picks at his dinner, avoiding Lafayette’s eye, and retreats to his room to throw himself into his homework as soon as Martha dismisses him from the table.

The knock doesn’t surprise him, but Lafayette’s question when he cracks the door open does.

“Martha wants me to run to the store to pick up some eggs. Will you come with me?”

Alex hesitates. “Is that really a two-person job?”

“Please, Alex.”

Something in Lafayette’s tone gets to him, and Alex agrees to go along against his better judgment. “Fine. Let me get my jacket.”

He’s half expecting some sort of trap, but Lafayette does in fact drive them to the nearest grocery store, blasting music on the way there loud enough that the car vibrates along with the bassline.

Alex trails a few steps behind Lafayette as he wanders the store in search of the dairy section, then takes his time methodically pulling out cartons of eggs one at a time to check them meticulously for cracks and god knows what else. After he’s examined and put back no less than five cartons, Alex loses his patience.

“Dude. Just pick one.”

“Ah,” Lafayette says, holding an open carton in his hands. There are a dozen normal-looking, undamaged eggs inside. “So you are still talking to me.”

“I was never not talking to you,” Alex points out. “I literally agreed to come here with you by talking to you.”

Closing the lid of the cartoon, Lafayette opens the cooler door to put it back.

“Would you – what was wrong with those eggs?”

Lafayette chooses another carton, this one from the back. “I am, how do you say? Oh, _stalling_.”

Alex stares at him. “You’re going to hold me hostage in a grocery store? For the love of god, _why_?”

Another dozen perfectly fine eggs fail to pass Lafayette’s inspection and are returned to their chilly cooler home. “I could not let you have home-field advantage for this battle, mon ami. I intend to win it.”

Running a hand over the top of his head to smooth back any stray strands of hair, Alex reminds him, “We are running an errand, not engaging in warfare.”

Lafayette ignores this commentary. “You got upset at lunch. Herc thought perhaps we should give you space, but I think that is not the right approach.” He’s run out of egg real estate, and pulls a carton of milk out of the cooler next. There’s not really anything to examine with the milk, and he opts to frown at the 2% label before putting it back.

Alex laughs a little desperately. “And you thought ‘dairy aisle, that’s the ticket’?”

“I thought,” Lafayette says, slowly and deliberately, “that you should know that Herc and I made a mistake. We were trying to – to protect you, I suppose. To convince you that John’s absence had nothing to do with you.”

Alex presses his lips together, breathing deep through his nose. “Yeah, well. You definitely failed on that front.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why we are here, non? So I can tell you that I am sorry. I should not have helped cover for John. It was not my intention to hurt you.”

For a sudden, humiliating moment, Alex is afraid he’s going to cry. He swallows a couple times, scanning over the milk selection until his eyes stop stinging. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he finally mumbles.

Lafayette’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Do you forgive me? I find that the dairy aisle is very healing, very conducive to atonement.”

Alex’s sudden laugh surprises both of them. “Did Martha even ask you pick up eggs?”

Slipping his hands into his pockets, Lafayette says, “Ah. Not as such, no.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Alex shakes his head. “You dragged me all the way here just to say sorry?”

“I had to be sure you would listen! You could not tell me you had to get back to your homework here in the grocery store, could you?”

“I guess not,” Alex admits. Tugging at his jacket zipper, he jerks it up and down a few times. “Just – tell me one thing.”

Lafayette has given up all pretext of poking at various dairy products. “Of course.”

“What did John actually say to you and Herc?”

“Truthfully?” Laf sighs. “He has not been very, ah, forthcoming. It is not difficult to connect the polka, though.”

It takes Alex a second. “Dots. Just plain dots. You don’t connect polka dots.”

Laf frowns. “What’s wrong with polka dots?”

“It – nevermind. He really didn’t say anything?”

With a shrug, Lafayette says, “I have learned my lesson about getting in the middle, non? I think you and John have to work this one out on your own.”

Alex zips his jacket up to his chin, mumbling into the material. “And what if I don’t want to?”

Laf raises one hand, thumb pointing over his shoulder. “The next aisle has ice cream?”

Easing down the zipper far enough to free his mouth, Alex says, “Okay, fine. I acknowledge the tactical brilliance of dragging me to the grocery store.”

Lafayette grins, sliding his arm over Alex’s shoulder to steer him down the next aisle. “I knew you would see it my way eventually.”

-

John is back at lunch on Tuesday with a new phone in hand, so at least some of the story he told Herc and Lafayette might’ve been true. He’s his usual boisterous self, save for the sudden allergy he’s developed to making direct eye contact with Alex. Lafayette and Hercules do their best to fill in the awkward cracks of the conversation, but there is a clear strain that they all ignore.

As the week wears on, that strain between Alex and John continues to fester like an infected wound, or maybe a raging river with a damaged bridge bisecting it, or—

Alex scribbles out his increasingly stupid metaphors, shoving his journal into the bottom drawer of his desk so he doesn’t have to look at it. Holding his head in his hands, elbows resting on the desk, he just breathes for a while.

John still hasn’t texted him back. Alex has started and deleted more messages than he can count, too afraid to send any of them. The longer their deadlock drags on, the more torn up he feels, all ragged edges with little hope of healing cleanly.

-

On Friday, John’s article about gender neutral bathrooms runs, the byline still anonymous. It certainly generates a buzz, but half the student reactions Alex overhears seem to think it’s a joke, and the other half vary between disgust and outright hostility.

Not surprisingly, John’s in an uncharacteristically sour mood in 7th period. He’s out the door like a shot the second the bell rings, leaving Alex scrambling to catch up. There’s no newspaper after school on the Fridays they publish, but John’s usually still the one to give Alex a ride home. Angelica and Eliza have been generously filling in this week, but Alex doesn’t have a contingency plan for today.

“Hey,” Alex says, trying to shoulder his way through the students flooding the halls before John can get too far ahead. “I—”

“Alex!” A voice calls, and he turns to see Eliza waving him down in the opposite direction of the main doors.

“Your girlfriend’s calling,” John says without missing a step.

“She’s not—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before John’s out of earshot, walking with determination towards the door.

Eliza is still looking at him expectantly, beckoning him over. Alex’s eyes flick between her and the rigid line of John’s shoulders, moving further away with each passing second.

He makes a snap decision.

Holding his hand up to his ear, thumb and pinky sticking out, he pantomimes a phone, mouthing ‘call me’ down the hall to Eliza.

She makes a dismissive gesture back, but her smile doesn’t dim, so that’s probably alright. When Alex turns back, John’s no longer in his line of vision. Throwing himself into the fray, Alex elbows and shoves his way through the crowded hallway until he reaches the main doors.

John’s just reached the bottom of the concrete steps outside the school, and he hesitates for a half a second when Alex calls his name.

“John,” Alex calls again. “Jesus, just wait for a second.”

He’s only got one strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder, and he tugs at it with impatience, waiting for Alex to descend the steps. “Yo, what’s up? Kind of in a hurry here.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Alex tells him as soon as he’s close enough, keeping his voice low.

All of John’s focus is on the toe of his trainer as he digs it into the pavement. “Okay. Don’t know why that’s info I need to know, but whatever.”

Alex’s fists ball in frustration. “Why are you being such a dick?”

“Who’s being a dick? I’m just trying to get to my car before traffic gets backed up.”

“Come off it. You’ve been acting weird around me ever since you walked in on—” Alex cuts himself off, eyes darting nervously around. The main doors are not the best place to have a private conversation, but there’s nowhere else close enough to drag John to in order to hash this out.

John hitches the strap of his backpack up higher on his shoulder. “I didn’t think you were actually into her, but like, that’s your business, man. That’s got nothing to do with me. Like, I could care less who you kiss.”

“Really?” Alex snorts in disbelief. “Because that’s not how you’re acting right now.”

John finally lifts his eyes, and Alex has to physically force himself not to take a step back at the intensity of the look John gives him. He licks his lips, his freckles dark against his winter pale face, but his gaze skitters to the side before he manages to get out an almost inaudible, “Whatever. I gotta go.”

This time, Alex watches John walk away. Still standing at the bottom of the steps, he reaches for his phone to text Eliza to find out what she wanted, but mostly to beg for a ride home.

-

Being grounded all weekend means there’s no pressure to go out, and Alex works ahead, finishing his homework from the previous week and starting on the next week’s.

“Do you ever rest?” Lafayette asks him. Alex must have a more comfortable mattress, because Laf spends more time stretched across Alex’s bed than his own, scrolling through his phone or flipping through a book, then napping when the first two activities fail to hold his attention.

Alex flicks his forehead until Lafayette blinks awake, five-o-clock shadow a barely-there shadow along his jaw, even though its only 2pm.

“What?” Laf groans, rolling over and taking Alex’s covers with him. “I was having a nice dream.”

“You were snoring,” Alex tells him, turning back to his chemistry.

By the following weekend, Lafayette is absolutely stir-crazy, and Alex doesn’t stand a chance of saying no to him.

“Anywhere but the Waffle Shack,” is his only stipulation. “And remember, we have to be home by 10.”

Perhaps Alex should have been more specific, because their Friday night destination turns out to be a bowling alley, complete with a light-up neon ball hitting a pin with flashing explosion lines on the marquee.

“You’re joking,” Alex says as Lafayette pulls to a stop in the parking lot.

“I would never,” Lafayette tells him, turning off the ignition. “Friday night they have a ten-dollar glow-bowl special!”

Alex slouches in the passenger seat. “What a bargain.”

It’s both loud and dark inside the bowling alley, save for all the black lights. Alex is immediately wary. Herc and John are already there, laughing as they shove their feet into ridiculous bowling shoes.

“We got the lane reserved,” Herc tells them over a shitty top-40 remix blasting from the bowling alley speakers. “You just need to rent shoes.”

“I don’t get this sport,” Alex complains to Lafayette’s back, following him to the counter. “Why do we have to wear used clown shoes? It’s gross.”

Lafayette doesn’t bother to respond, and Alex reluctantly tells the dead-eyed girl behind the counter his shoe size. She snaps pink bubblegum in his face before grabbing the shoes for him.

Alex picks them up them carefully by the stretched-out laces. “Can’t believe we get all this for only $10. It’s honestly a steal.”

“That’s the spirit, mon ami!” Lafayette wraps his arm around Alex’s shoulders, shaking him with enthusiasm.

“You’re French, asshole. Don’t pretend not to understand sarcasm.”

The one plus of the evening is that it’s much easier to pretend like the residual awkwardness between him and John no longer exists, especially with the loud music and constant shifting as they each get up from the table to take their turns bowling. Lunch, by comparison, is getting almost unbearable. Alex has convinced himself that their friend group is going to splinter completely, but that John will wind up with both Laf and Herc in the divorce. He’s starting to lose sleep over it.

The lack of sleep catches up to him by 8:30, and he’s yawning loudly after he manages to drop another ball in the gutter.

“That’s an interesting strategy you’ve got going, man, but see, if you want a high score, you’ve actually got to hit the pins,” Hercules tells him.

Alex rolls his eyes. “Oh, is that how this game works? If only someone had explained it to me _before_ I fucked up the first five frames.”

Herc grins, teeth bright and green-hued under the black light. “Tough luck.”

Flipping him off, Alex announces, “I’m going to get a drink.”

There’s a small arcade along with a couple of vending machines near the main door, and Alex scrounges around for enough change to get himself a coke, hoping the caffeine will keep him awake until 10. He takes a moment to check his phone before wandering back to their lane, where Herc and Laf have their heads together, talking in low voices while John is up on the lanes.

Herc and Laf fall silent as soon as Alex plops down at the table.

“Talking bowling strategy?” he asks dryly, taking a long drink of coke.

“Something like that,” Lafayette says somewhat worryingly before immediately changing the topic.

Alex only ends up waiting about 45 minutes to figure out the big secret. The caffeine serves its purpose in keeping him awake, but also means he needs a bathroom break. He’s only gone a couple of minutes at the most, but apparently it was the opportunity Hercules and Lafayette were waiting for.

He comes back to a slightly emptier table, Lafayette nowhere to be seen.

Alex immediately narrows his eyes. “Where’s Laf?”

“Oh,” Herc says, like he hadn’t even noticed Lafayette was missing. “He forgot about an urgent errand he needed to run before curfew.”

Alex stares at him. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Herc continues. “One of us can totally give you a ride.”

Up on the lane, John gets a spare on a 7-10 split and whoops loudly, fist pumping as he returns to the table. “Fuck yeah, dude.” Stopping short, he looks around. “Where’s Lafayette? He’s up.”

“Urgent errand,” Hercules says. “He won’t make it back, so you can take his turn if you want.”

John looks about as unimpressed as Alex feels. “He just left? In the middle of the game?”

“Yep.” Hercules stretches his arms out, arching his back, the picture of contentment. “And he was Alex’s ride, so one of us is going to have to take Alex home. Oh, but I just remembered, I won’t be able to.”

Alex’s fingers tighten on his coke can, crushing it a little. “What? Why not?”

“I’ve got a – thing. A faulty… airbag? But only on the passenger side. Don’t you boys worry, I’m taking it into the shop tomorrow, gonna get it fixed in no time. I just can’t drive anyone tonight, specifically. Wouldn’t be safe.”

Alex is going to kill Lafayette. In cold blood. With his bare hands. “Don’t even worry about it, bro,” he tells Herc. John’s eyes widen in alarm, and Alex adds, “I can sit in the backseat.”

Herc’s face scrunches up. “Ah, that would totally work, except…” He trails off, scratching under his beanie. “Um. My backseat has… stuff in it?”

“Jesus Christ, you guys are the fucking worst,” John says, shaking his head in irritation. “Whatever, it’s fine. I can take you home, Alex, since apparently that’s what Dumb and Dumber here were trying to orchestrate.”

Alex’s stomach clenches. “How could I possibly turn down an invitation like that?”

Completely shameless, Herc folds his fingers into pretend guns and shoots off a couple of rounds. “Well, gents, on that note, I’m going to go ahead and call it a night. Peace.” His quick exit is slowed by the fact that he has to bend over and remove his bowling shoes first, so Alex at least has the pleasure of watching his discomfort as he fumbles with the laces, refusing to look at either of them.

-

“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of Alex’s mouth as soon as he and John are in the car. “I would not have come tonight if I knew they were going to pull this shit.”

John lets out an audible sigh, reversing out of his parking spot jerkily. “It’s fine, dude. You shouldn’t have to, like, avoid all social interactions because you might have to talk to me.”

“I – hang on a minute. I _want_ to talk you. I fucking miss y—I mean. I honestly don’t understand what’s even, like,” Alex gestures between them, “happening, here.”

John drives well over the speed limit, and it makes the light of the street lamps they pass flicker rapidly over his face. His jaw is very tense. “I just,” he says, then stops. Sighs noisily again. “I’m being a fucking idiot, alright? Just, like, give me a little while to get my head on straight.”

Holds folded in his lap, Alex says, “Okay. But like, how long? Because I really – I really don’t know what to do without you. To talk to, I mean. And to --” He swallows, goes for broke. “Meeting you was one of the best things that’s happened to me, you know? And I know it’s only been a couple of months, but I really – I really don’t want to not be friends with you.”

“Christ,” John mutters. “You really know how to go for the jugular, don’t you?”

It’s too late to take his confession back. All Alex can do is dig in harder, hold his ground. “Whatever you think happened between me and Eliza, I promise you—”

“I don’t care about you and Eliza,” John interrupts. He presses down hard on the brakes as the light in front of them turns red, and Alex jerks forward in his seat as the car slams to a stop. The stoplight washes out John’s freckles, but not the deep furrow between his brows.

“Then tell me what else changed between us, because that’s all I’ve got,” Alex pleads.

For a long moment, John doesn’t say anything. The light turns green, but he doesn’t take his foot off the brake. They sit there at the otherwise empty intersection, engine idling. “I just thought you’d tell me, is all,” John says at last, voice barely louder than a whisper. “That you were into her. That you’d give me a warning, at least.”

“But I’m _not_ into her,” Alex says.

John shoots him a look, sickly gold painting his features as the light turns yellow, and Alex insists, “I’m _not_. I mean, I could be, sure, she’s smart and pretty and—”

“Yeah, I get it, you don’t have carry on—”

“— _but_ , it’s all – it’s all superficial, you know? Like, maybe if I got to know her better, it’d be – but it’s not really – she’s—” He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair and messing up his ponytail. “I’m not explaining this well. The bottom line is, I was drunk, and she was there, and you—” _weren’t_ , he manages not to say, holding onto the word by his teeth. “You weren’t there to talk me out of it,” he quickly amends.

The light turns green again; Alex somehow missed it flipping to red. John finally takes his foot off the brake, slamming it onto the gas instead, and the car jerks forward. “I mean, I was very much at the party. For the record. And I did go look for you when you didn’t come back, so. Not really sure what more you expected from me?”

Alex double checks that his seatbelt is secure. “Not to give me the cold shoulder after the fact just because I kissed a girl?”

John is quiet for a few blocks, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “You can kiss who you want,” he says at last, turning onto Alex’s street.

“I don’t want to kiss Eliza,” Alex tells him. “I want to—I just want us to still be friends. That’s all.”

Easing to a stop in front of the Washington’s house, John mutters almost inaudibly, “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Shaking himself like he’s trying to rouse himself from a dream, John finally looks over at Alex. “I’m sorry, alright? You’re right. I’ve been a dick. I’ll – Monday. I’ll be better on Monday.”

There are so many more things Alex wants to say, but it’s almost 10pm and John’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. “Thanks for the ride,” Alex says instead, the words completely inadequate.

“Yeah, no problem, man.”

John peels off with a screech of tires before Alex has even made it to the front door. Letting himself inside, Alex carefully toes his shoes off and pads upstairs on socked feet as quietly as he can. There’s no light under Lafayette’s closed door, but that doesn’t stop Alex from sending him one carefully composed text before falling into bed.

**Is that your idea of not getting in the middle? You owe me so much ice cream you dick**

-

Naturally, Alex can’t sleep. His eyes are gritty with exhaustion, but every time he closes them his mind races with all the things he didn’t say to John. That he wishes John would have said to him. He replays John’s words over and over, analyzing every hitch in his breath, every look he threw Alex’s way, trying to figure out where the hidden meaning is, if any exists at all.

But it’s the conversation he had with Lafayette, over a month ago now, that makes his heart thud painfully against his rib cage more than anything else. Alex still has John’s hoodie, tucked away in the bottom drawer of his dresser behind the new ones Martha bought him. Lafayette told him he needed to reflect on that, but they both knew even then that that wasn’t true.

The truth was right there, barely even hidden under the surface. Alex just wasn’t ready to admit it. Not out loud, anyway.

Rolling out of bed, he goes to his desk and pulls out his journal. Uncapping his pen, he flips to a new page, ignoring his scribbled over metaphors. Setting ink to paper, he lets the words flow until his hand cramps, teasing out every last thought and emotion twisting around inside of him, trying to make sense of it all.

It’s late by the time he tucks his journal away and turns the light back off, but his head feels a little less full. It’s empty enough to sleep, at least, and he finally drifts off.

-

Lafayette wakes up him Saturday afternoon with two pints of Ben and Jerry’s. “Herc’s vote was to lock you both in a closet until you worked things out,” he says, handing Alex one of the pints, along with a spoon. “But I talked him out of it. So really, if you think about it, you’re the one who owes me.”

“Nope,” Alex says, even as he accepts Lafayette’s peace offer and shoves his spoon into the ice cream. It’s cookie dough flavored, and he digs out a morsel, popping it into his mouth. “That is categorically false.”

Taking a small bite of his own ice cream, also straight from the carton, Lafayette asks, “But you two did at least talk, right? Our cleverly crafted plan worked?”

“We talked,” Alex allows. “Although I’m hesitant to call your plan ‘clever,’ or even a ‘plan.’”

“It was pure genius,” Laf argues, waving his spoon at Alex. “But that’s not important. I am more interested in learning what you talked about.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Alex digs out another chunk of cookie dough. “You know. Things. Hopefully everything will be back to normal on Monday.”

Lafayette huffs. “Well that’s a _start_ , I guess.”

Alex waits until Lafayette’s distracted with his next spoonful of ice cream to slide his journal under a book, hiding it from view. “Hey,” he says suddenly.

Pulling his spoon out of his mouth, Lafayette says, “Yes?”

“Remember when I said – we were talking about that one night, and I told you—”

Lafayette waits patiently for Alex to string his words together in something resembling coherency. Alex takes a deep breath. “I said it wasn’t like that? With me and John?”

“I remember, yes,” Lafayette tells him.

Alex digs his spoon into his ice cream, uncovering another bite of cookie dough he’s suddenly too queasy to eat. “What if I was lying?”

Setting down his pint, Lafayette turns all of his focus on Alex. “Mon cher, why do you think Hercules and I made up ridiculous lies to get you two to talk again?”

Alex plays a bit of hair that’s come loose from his ponytail, running his fingers over it again and again. “Because lunch was getting super awkward?”

Lafayette purses his lips. “Okay, yes, I admit that was a factor.” Reaching out to tug on Alex’s hoodie string, Lafayette offers him a kind smile. “Do you remember what advice I gave you?”

Alex makes a face. “Some bullshit about reflecting?”

Tipping back his head with a laugh, Lafayette says, “Yes, okay, maybe I did say that. But I was thinking of a different piece of advice… about who you should perhaps be having this conversation with instead?”

In response, Alex shovels a large spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He regrets it almost immediately, and Lafayette just laughs cruelly when he gets brain freeze. “I hate you,” Alex moans.

“You could never,” Lafayette tells him with entirely too much confidence.

-

When sleep proves elusive again Saturday night, Alex pulls his journal back out, rereading his rambling words from the night before. It’s not his most coherent work, but it is honest. Flipping to the back, Alex tears out a blank page, smoothing it against the desk.

This time when he sets pen to paper, he takes his time choosing each word with care. When he’s done, he folds the letter carefully and tucks it away for safe-keeping until he can decide what he wants to do with it, if anything.

-

John’s true to his word. Lunch on Monday isn’t quite back to normal, but John makes a real effort, and the end result is far from awkward. Lafayette keeps shooting Alex smug looks over his chocolate milk until Alex loses his patience and flings a couple peas at him. One gets caught in Laf’s hair, and he makes a wounded noise as he tries in vain to dig it out, which makes Herc laugh until he snorts, and then the whole table loses it.

“Way to take one for the team,” Alex tells him as the bell rings, dismissing them from the cafeteria.

“I hate you,” Laf informs him. There’s still a bit of green pea mush in his hair, but it’s hardly even noticeable. Not that anyone tells Lafayette this.

Alex grins. “You could never.”

Throughout the day, Alex can’t help periodically reaching into his backpack to check that his letter is still safely tucked away in its sealed envelope, running his fingers over the crisp edges. He has to hastily pull his hand free and tug the zipper shut when class ends, swinging his backpack over one shoulder, but John still waits for him.

They walk together to newspaper and take their usual seats in the back. Eliza cocks an eyebrow at Alex, but doesn’t say anything. John pretends not to notice, and Alex checks his phone to avoid looking at either one of them.

The moment of awkwardness doesn’t last long, as Angelica is quick to bring the room to order, calling for everyone to shut up and pay attention.

“As some of you may have noticed,” she starts, voice even steelier than normal, “we had a rather… strong reaction to an article in last week’s paper.”

Next to Alex, John stiffens in his seat.

“There are some people calling for a retraction, and a number of students who want us to run an article _against_ gender-neutral bathrooms in the name of ‘equality.’” Angelica bares her teeth, her lip curling. “Their word choice, not mine. I just want to make it clear for everyone in this room that while we support unbiased journalism and seek to report all sides of the issues, we will not tolerate hate or bigotry. There will be no retraction, and we will not be publishing any student responses that includes hateful rhetoric. Any questions?” Angelica asks in a tone that does not invite any questions.

There is a moment of very loud silence; the only audible sound the second-hand of the wall clock ticking forward. After several ticks, Alex clears his throat. “Well said, Angelica.”

Her smile is equally brilliant as it is brief. “Thank you, Alexander. Now get to work, everyone.”

-

John’s quiet during the drive home, but it doesn’t feel like he’s shutting Alex out this time; more like he’s closed in on himself.

“Angelica really had your back today,” Alex ventures, holding his backpack in his lap. The letter is still tucked away inside, and his palms are sweaty just thinking about its intended purpose.

“Yeah,” John sounds distracted. “I mean, she had to lobby pretty hard with the faculty to run the article in the first place. She’s been – the newspaper’s been a lot more of a tolerant environment since she took over as editor-in-chief.”

They roll through a stop sign, John barely tapping the brake, as Alex reflects on this.

“Still a long way to go for the rest of the school though, huh?” he says after a moment.

John snorts. “You’re telling me. Rich privileged _fucks_.” Alex opts not to point out how John definitely fits into at least one, if not both of those categories, instead leaning his forehead against the passenger side window.

When John pulls into the Washington’s driveway, Alex doesn’t immediately open the door.

The idea of handing over his letter to John makes him want to throw up, but the idea of keeping it and continuing to agonize over whether he should give it to John is just barely worse.

“Um,” Alex says, then coughs to clear his throat. “So, listen. I know we literally just, you know, worked through some stuff, and probably the dumbest thing I could do right now is something to mess that up, but…”

“Shit, dude, you’re making me nervous.”

Alex laughs shakily. “That makes two us.” Unzipping his backpack, he reaches in and pulls out his letter. “If I’m wrong,” he says, holding onto it with sweaty fingers, “then please burn this, and we never need to speak of it again, okay?”

“Okay…” John says slowly. “Uh, what is it, though?”

“I’m better at words if I can write them down, and I really didn’t want to fuck this up. So here.” Alex shoves the letter at John. “Read it, and just – just let me know, okay?” He doesn’t wait for John to respond, climbing out of the car and shutting the door behind him before practically running for the house.

-

“Are you feeling well, Alex? You’ve hardly touched your dinner.”

“Oh, um.” Alex looks up from where he’s been building a gravy lake in the middle of his mashed potatoes to meet Martha’s worried eyes. “I had a big lunch.”

“Is that so, mon ami? Because I don’t think you finished your pe—”

Alex kicks Lafayette’s foot under the table. “Yes. It was very filling, and uh, nutritious.”

Lafayette doesn’t even bother to cover his snort, so Alex kicks him again. “Ow,” Laf mumbles.

“If you don’t like it, Alex, you can be honest with me,” Martha tells him, so sincerely Alex nearly chokes on his guilt. “We can pick up food from somewhere else next time.”

“No, no, I promise, it’s not the food. I just – between lunch and, uh, this exam I have tomorrow, I’m not really…”

“Tell you what,” Martha says. “I’ll talk to George, see if he can get off work at a decent time sometime this week and make you boys a home cooked meal. Lord knows all this takeout isn’t good for you.”

Never one to miss an opportunity, Lafayette immediately pounces. “Can we have steak? George is a master of the grill and it’s been so long. Oh, and those stuffed portobella mushrooms? And—”

Laughing, Martha holds up a hand to stop Lafayette. “What a wish list. I hadn’t planned on going to the grocery store, but we can put a list together and I’ll send you boys. I don’t think I’ll have time this week.” Alex still isn’t clear exactly what Martha does for a living, but it involves something with investments and allows her a flexible enough schedule to regularly eat dinner with them.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Alex offers politely. “But um, if it’s okay, I was actually going to go work on some homework…?”

Lafayette gives him a curious look that Alex interprets as a guarantee there will be a knock on his door tonight, and minutely shakes his head. He hasn’t heard anything from John since handing over his letter a few hours ago, and it’s making him so anxious he might implode. He’s not in the state of mind to talk to anyone.

Once Martha dismisses him, Alex throws himself into his homework, but his concentration is shot and he can’t focus on any particular topic for long enough to get a single assignment done. Sleep is an even more remote possibility, and Alex has just resigned himself to a few quality hours of staring at his ceiling when his phone buzzes with a new text.

It’s from John, and Alex’s stomach does a complete somersault when he reads it.

**I just wanted to let you know I read ur letter and im not going to burn it. Can we talk?**

* * *

 

 

 

> _J –_
> 
> _I haven’t been completely honest with you, but in my defense, I don’t think you’ve been honest with me either._
> 
> _It’s fair to say that the reason I let E kiss me is because she was there. Because it was easy, because she looked at me like she wanted me, and I’ve never been good at saying no when I want to say yes. Isn’t that all anyone wants? To be wanted?_
> 
> _But it’s also fair to say that the real reason I let her kiss me is because you weren’t there. Because even if you had been next to me on that bed instead of her, we both know how much harder it would be for us. That’s not fucking fair, but it’s the truth, isn’t it?_
> 
> _Here’s another truth. You keep looking at me like you want more, but you don’t ask for it. I think you’re scared to. I don’t blame you for that. But you should know, that if you did ask – I would say yes. Even if it’s hard. I don’t care about that._
> 
> _I just care about you._
> 
> _\- A_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, a thousand thanks for the kudos/comments - you don't know how appreciated they are!
> 
> also, i caved and made a hamilton sideblog, because apparently this is my life now. [stop by and say hi if you're so inclined](https://finestfaceoncurrency.tumblr.com/)!


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> down for the count and I’m drownin’ in em

Nerves make Alex’s fingers clumsy, and he fumbles as he types a reply to John, correcting more than one typo before sending the text.

**Name the time and place**

John’s answering message takes a long time to come through, and Alex paces the floor between his bed and his desk as he waits, the thick rug muffling his footsteps. When his phone finally buzzes with a new text, Alex almost drops it in his haste to open the message.

It’s from Lafayette. The thinnest shred of self-control keeps Alex from throwing his phone at the wall hard enough to shatter it.

**You sound like a caged tiger. U okay mon ami?**

Apparently the rug didn’t muffle his pacing enough. Alex taps out a hasty reply.

**Fine. Waiting on an important text.**

Laf must get the hint, because he doesn’t message Alex again. He’ll expect an explanation come morning though, and Alex will have to grovel for forgiveness, especially when he can’t give Laf one. Not yet, anyway.

The next time Alex’s phone buzzes, he’s caught so off guard he really does drop his phone, but it lands on the rug with a muted thump. Dropping to his haunches, he picks it up carefully, but there are no new cracks in the screen.

There is a reply from John, however.

**Not at school. Not private enough. My dads been on my ass lately about my grades and wants me home after school this week. Can we go somewhere fri?**

Alex breathes deeply through his nose. Friday is four days away. The chances of him developing a stress ulcer and dying from it by then seem astronomically high.

Still. It could be worse. John could’ve burned the letter and never spoken to him again.

**Sure. Wherever you want on Friday**

-

Alex’s prediction proves true. The second he and Lafayette are in the car on the way to school, Lafayette wants to know what was going on the night before. Alex tells him he’s made either the best or worst decision of his life, and when he refuses to elaborate more than that, Lafayette is initially sweet and cajoling, then increasingly exasperated.

“It is obvious something is bothering you! You are doing that thing with your hands.”

Alex lets go of the zipper he’d been playing with. “What thing with my hands?”

Lafayette gestures vaguely with one hand, the other on the steering wheel. “You know, the – the fidgeting. Your hands are never still when you have something on your brain.”

“On my mind,” Alex corrects. “And you can pry all you like, man, but I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

Lafayette mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath in French, but finally drops it.

John is suspiciously absent at lunch, but no one brings it up. Lafayette keeps looking at Alex like the answer might be written on his face if Lafayette just looks hard enough, and Alex drops his gaze to his tray, cutting his food into increasingly smaller pieces. When the pieces get too small to keep going, Alex gets up from the table to take his tray to the garbage. There’s still too much time left before the bell rings, so he channels his anxiety into a second trip through the kitchen, managing to slip an entire chicken wrap out under his Lake Forest blue blazer.

“Dude,” Hercules says when Alex makes his way back to the table pulls it out. “Really? You didn’t even eat your first lunch.”

Ignoring him, Alex slides the wrap to Laf and asks him, “Can you give this to John?” He’d take it to John himself, except for how John is probably avoiding him specifically. That makes it Alex’s fault he’s not at lunch, Alex’s fault he’s going hungry.

Lafayette’s eyes narrow with suspicion as he takes the wrap, then widen not three seconds later as realization dawns. “Oh,” he says. “ _Ohhhhhh_.”

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Alex mumbles, “It’s not – just tell him I’m just repaying the favor.”

“Yes, of course, a _favor_. I will pass this message along.” He pauses. “Are you sure you have nothing else to add?”

Face hot, Alex tries to snatch the wrap back, but Lafayette is too quick. Grumbling, Alex tells him, “You know what, nevermind, I’ll just take it myself—"

“What?” Herc asks, looking back and forth between the two of them. “What is happening right now? What did I miss?”

Tucking the wrap away, Lafayette smooths his expression into something a tad less obvious. “Ah, nothing, nothing. Just a little inside joke with Alex.” He ruins his attempt at casual by winking obviously.

Alex drops his head in his hands.

“Whatever,” Herc says. “I don’t even want to know.”

-

(Lafayette texts him five minutes after the bell rings for 5th period.

**Mission complete. John sends his warmest regards.**

Sneaking his phone out of his pocket and hiding it under the desk, Alex texts back quickly.

**Did he actually say that???**

Lafayette’s only reply is the winking emoji, the unhelpful asshole.)

-

By Friday, Alex most definitely has an ulcer (self-diagnosed, with an assist from Web-MD). He also has clammy hands and a scab on one his knuckles that won’t heal because he can’t stop picking at it. The clock seems to stop during 7th period, the second hand unmoving for minutes at a time. Alex starts working on a theory involving wormholes and time loops, filling the margin of his notebook instead of taking notes. It works as a distraction; he’s actually startled when the bell rings.

John waits for him when class lets out, lingering in the hallway just outside the door.

“Hi,” he says, fidgeting with his keys, one finger looped through the key ring as he twirls them around.

“Hi,” Alex returns, pretending his stomach isn’t in knots.

They both stand there a moment, a sea of Lake Forest blue flowing around them.

“Should we—” Alex starts, haltingly.

John nods, turning towards the doors. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

In the car, John won’t stop fiddling with the radio, the music blasting as he flips through radio station after radio station. The overcast sky finally delivers the rain its been promising all day, but it’s a half-hearted sprinkle; fat drops hitting the windshield easily brushed aside by the windshield wipers.

Alex doesn’t pay attention to where John’s driving them until he looks up and realizes they’re not taking the familiar route to the Washingtons.

“Um,” he says. “Where are we going?”

“Don’t laugh,” John tells them. He takes a sharp left, and suddenly in front of them is the big, bold sign for the zoo.

Alex laughs.

“What did I just say?” John asks, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile. Following signs to the parking lot, he adds, sounding almost sheepish, “I dunno, I couldn’t think of anywhere else we could go where there wouldn’t be other people around.”

Alex concedes the point. “A rainy trip to the zoo is not how I envisioned my Friday night starting, I’ll give you that.”

There are a few scattered groups of people braving weather that can’t quite make up its mind between winter and spring, but it’s mostly the under six crowd with either their parents or grandparents. Alex shoves his cold hands into his pockets and lets John lead them past enclosures featuring brown, dead grass and the very last of the unmelted snow from the last snowstorm, now stained dull and gray. Some animals don’t seem to mind the light drizzle, but the ones Alex relates to are huddled under shelters or overhangs, waiting morosely for the warmth of spring.

John doesn’t slow his hurried pace until they reach the big cat section, finally drawing to a stop in front of the tiger enclosure. There’s a lot of mud and barren tree branches, but no flash of tiger stripes that Alex can spot. Maybe it’s empty. Maybe all the tigers are holed up inside, where it’s warm and dry.

Fighting a shiver as the light rain slowly dampens his jacket, Alex hunches his shoulders, standing next to John and staring into the empty enclosure.

“Maybe the tigers got out,” he suggests after a moment, when John doesn’t seem inclined to say anything. The rain stops as the clouds blow past, revealing a slice of gray sky.

“That’d be sick,” John says. “I always feel bad for them, being locked up like that.”

A toddler bundled up in a yellow rain slicker and bright red boots waddles by at a surprisingly fast, if unsteady clip, their mother chasing after them. They move on quickly, not bothering to stop and check for tigers.

“So,” John says after they’re gone.

“So,” Alex echoes.

As John glances at him, the clouds shift again, until enough early evening sunlight shines through to brush his hazel eyes with strands of gold. His face is a familiar constellation of freckles, and his bottom lip is white where his teeth dig into the skin. Alex waits for him to start talking. He’s put himself out there already. It’s John’s turn.

“I don’t get,” John says at last, “why you don’t choose Eliza. It would be so much easier if you chose Eliza.”

“Easier for who?” Alex asks him. There’s a slight breeze that pulls at the hair that’s come loose from Alex’s ponytail, and he tucks it behind his ear before shoving his hand back into the warmth of his pocket.

With a huff, John says, “Everyone? If you think the Lee’s of the world are assholes now, can you even imagine—” he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath.

“I’m not afraid of the Lee’s of the world,” Alex says softly. “And I don’t think you are either.” He nudges his shoulder against John’s. “You’ve already proven that.”

John shakes his head. “No, but – it’s different, when it’s – when it’s true. Do you know what I’m saying?”

There’s a single gnarled, brown leaf clinging to one of the tree branches in the tiger enclosure. Alex watches it dance and sway in the breeze, wondering how it hung on all winter long. “My dad split when I was little. I don’t really remember him, and my mom never talked about him. Never found out why he’d abandon his own kid – if he was just a bad person, or if it was something I did—”

John reaches out, circling his fingers around Alex’s wrist and squeezing gently.

Alex swallows, eyes still on the leaf. “I always thought, you know, maybe my mom would tell me more when I was older. Tell me why, even if it was my fault.”

“How could it be? You were just a kid.” There’s a thread of anger in John’s voice, and it makes the growing lump in Alex’s throat nearly impossible to swallow that John’s instinct is to defend him. To protect him, even against his own demons.

“Well, I guess I’ll never know,” he says quietly, “because my mom died when I was twelve and took it all to the grave with her.”

John tugs Alex’s hand free from his pocket, slides his own hand down Alex’s wrist until their palms line up and their fingers link, threading together. Holding on tight, Alex continues, “That was all in the Caribbean. I got sponsored to come to America, but it didn’t – I guess the family that sponsored me wasn’t ready for all my baggage, ‘cause I ended up in the foster system pretty quickly. I’ve heard it all since then – how I’m worthless, how my parents didn’t want me, didn’t love me, that I’m a burden, that—”

John’s grip on his hand tightens. He doesn’t seem to mind how clammy Alex’s is. “That’s shit, Alex. That’s so shitty. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

“Yeah, well. I’m just saying. I know how it feels, when the shit they say is true. Or hits close enough to home to feel true.”

For a long moment, John is quiet. He doesn’t let go of Alex’s hand. When he speaks again, it’s slow. Cautious. “Okay. But that’s kind of my point. If you – if we – it’s avoidable, is what I’m saying. We don’t have to put ourselves through that.”

Alex doesn’t ask John to clarify. He knows what John means. But another thought occurs to him, another unspoken truth between them that Alex wants – needs – to be out in the open. “Can I ask you something?”

John nods.

“Are you—” Alex hesitates. “Are you gay?”

John’s quiet for so long this time Alex thinks he isn’t going to answer. Finally, he says, barely audible, “You know, I’ve never said it out loud before. But I think. Yeah. I think I am. Gay.”

“So it’s not actually avoidable, then,” Alex points out, as gently as he can. His heart is beating very fast.

“Well there’s a difference in – in being gay, and in telling people that you’re gay. I don’t want to make this a competition of shitty dads, but if mine found out?” John shakes his head. “I’m not ready for that fallout.”

“That’s fair,” Alex tells him quickly. “But you should know that maybe in another lifetime, I’d choose Eliza. Right here, right now, though? It’s you. You’re the one. And if we can only be friends, fuck, I’ll settle for that, ‘cause when we weren’t talking, I missed you so much it drove me crazy, but I really – god. I’ll take whatever you give me, John.”

John makes a pained sound in his throat. “Talk about driving people crazy. You really—” Sucking in a sharp breath, he says, “I don’t know how to say no to you.”

“Then don’t,” Alex pleads with him. He grabs John’s other hand, holding onto both so that John has to turn away from the enclosure and face him. They don’t have much time before the sun slips before the horizon, before the zoo closes, before Alex has to be home and let go of John’s hand. “I know how much easier it would be with Eliza, or even Angelica—”

John snorts, and Alex grins at him, even though his knees feel a little shaky. “And a month ago, I was still trying to convince myself I’d be satisfied with that, but you – you get me more than anyone else does. I can’t settle, John. Not for anything less.”

“This is going to blow up in our faces,” John says. He hasn’t pulled away.

“Probably,” Alex agrees.

“It’s a terrible idea for so many reasons.”

“I won’t argue with you on that.”

John licks his lips. “Fuck it.”

He drops Alex’s hands, but only to bring his up to Alex’s face, sliding them along his jaw. Alex’s heart is beating so hard he thinks he might pass out, and his eyes flutter closed when John leans in. He hasn’t had a drop of alcohol, but he feels dizzy, drunk on John’s touch.

Alex holds his breath as John’s mouth brushes his, their lips catching, cautiously at first, then bolder. It’s electric, Alex’s stomach swooping, his fingers almost tingling.

His breathing is unsteady when John pulls back. John’s hands are still cupping Alex’s face, and he rests his forehead against Alex’s, their noses bumping.

“I wish—” John rubs his thumb along Alex’s jaw.

“I know,” Alex tells him. Somehow his arms are looped around John’s waist, though he doesn’t remember making a conscious choice to move them. He hugs John close.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of black and orange movement. When he turns his face, though, the tiger is nowhere to be seen.

-

Neither George nor Martha are home when John drops him off, but Lafayette is.

He catches Alex in the kitchen, rooting around the fridge for something to drink.

“So,” he says as Alex lets the fridge door shut, ignoring the way Alex flinches in surprise and popping something colorful into his mouth.

Alex narrows his eyes at the bag Lafayette is holding in his hand. “Are those gummy bears?”

“I will give you some,” Lafayette offers, arching one eyebrow. “In exchange for information.”

Alex scoffs. “You can’t bribe me with gummy bears.”

Tipping the bag, Lafayette dumps a handful into his palm. He doesn’t break eye contact as he lifts the hand to his mouth, shoving them all inside. “Mmmm,” he purrs, jaw working as he chews.

“That’s actually disgusting,” Alex informs him.

It takes Lafayette a bit to finish chewing, and he swallows with an almost painful gulp. “Delicious,” he wheezes. Alex admires his commitment.

“You could be sharing this treat with me, and for such a low price,” Lafayette tries, shaking the bag enticingly.

“No thanks,” Alex tells him cheerfully.

Lafayette actually pouts. “C’mon, mon ami. I know something is going on with you and John, and I know you were with him after school. Tell me, s'il te plaît.”

Clapping Lafayette on the shoulder, Alex leans in to tell him, “It’s like a wise man once told me. It’s something that me and John are working out between us.” The feeling of John’s lips on his is burned into his skin, and Alex has every intention of making it a repeat experience, even if the price is total secrecy.

Lafayette groans, and Alex takes the opportunity to dart his hand into the bag of gummy bears, stealing a small handful and darting out of the kitchen before Lafayette can catch him.

-

John and Alex are careful at school – a few casual bumped knees under the lunch table where no one can see, or spending a half-second too long brushing away non-existent lint from each other’s Lake Forest blazers, but nothing riskier than that. Lafayette is constantly watching them with suspicion, though it hasn’t seemed to occur to the rest of the student body that horse play between two boys might mean anything more.

After school is another story entirely.

John’s too paranoid to have Alex over at his house, even though his dad’s always at work and his mom is gone on business trips more than she’s home.

“You literally had all of us sneak in when you were grounded,” Alex points out. “How is this any different?”

“It just _is_ ,” John insists, sounding distressed enough about it that Alex lets it drop easily enough.

He vetoes the Washington’s house for the same reason – there is no one nosier than Lafayette, and he’s already convinced they’re hiding something – which leaves an increasingly odd list of public places that John deems safe enough to ensure their secret stays secret.

They visit the National Arboretum two weekends in a row, which results in Alex ruining a pair of pants with mud stains from stomping all over the muddy trails, and a park ranger kicking them out when the bench John insists is “perfect, Alex, seriously, this spot is totally secluded” turns out to be not all that secluded and they get caught making out.

“I wanna die,” John moans, throwing himself in the driver’s seat and hiding his face in his hands.

Alex tries in vain to get the worst of the mud off his shoes before climbing in the passenger seat, still hiccupping the occasional laugh. “Did you see his face though? I thought he was gonna have a heart attack when he realized that I was not, in fact, your girlfriend.”

John peeks through his fingers, one hazel eye finding Alex’s. “I would’ve noticed someone was coming if I hadn’t been distracted by your hair. It’s unfair how soft it is.”

It’s a little tangled now from John’s fingers, hanging in waves just past Alex’s shoulders. John had been the one to tug the elastic out of his hair without breaking the kiss, immediately sliding his fingers through the strands.

“God, I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he’d mumbled against Alex’s mouth, gripping a handful and pulling Alex closer.

That had been about thirty seconds before the park ranger had startled them apart with a shout, telling them to knock it off. “You kids can’t do that here. You’ll have to find somewhere else to take your girl, son, but you can’t – _oh_.”

Alex had lost it at the expression on the ranger’s face when he realized Alex was not a girl, trying and failing to muffle his laughter into John’s shoulder.

The escort to the nearest exit had been awkward, to say the least.

It’s not quite warm enough to roll the windows down, but Alex does anyway, just to feel the wind in his hair and distract John even more.

They have a bit more luck at a Sunday afternoon showing of a movie neither of them wants to watch.

“I don’t see why we have to spend money just to sit in the dark. We could easily do that for free, you know,” Alex complains.

“Shut up. I’m paying, anyway,” John tells him. He goes all out, getting them drinks and popcorn despite Alex’s insistence he doesn’t want any, and they pick seats at the very back of the nearly empty theater.

The popcorn ends up on the floor when John puts his hand on Alex’s thigh and his whole leg twitches. John laughs silently into Alex’s neck, hot puffs of air that tickle against his skin, but no one else notices, at least.

John holds his hand the whole drive home, and doesn’t drop it until they’re about to pull into the driveway.

Alex can’t sleep that night, but for once, it’s not because of anxiety.

-

The thrill of keeping a secret -- and the way John’s eyes go all soft whenever they’re alone together, making the secret worth keeping -- have the advantage of making Alex a more tolerant person in every other area of his life. Jefferson’s carefully aimed barbs in AP Gov don’t have the same sting they used to, rolling of Alex instead of catching under his skin.

“You finally figured out how to keep your claws sheathed, huh?” Burr asks him after class one day. “I’m impressed.”

“And you continue to waste oxygen every time you open your mouth,” Alex tells him cheerfully. “Have you ever considered keeping your boring thoughts to yourself? I promise you, Burr, I’m not looking for your approval in any aspect of my life.”

Shaking his head, Burr says, more to himself than to Alex, “Why do I even bother?”

With a grin, Alex says, “Wish you wouldn’t, man. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

He keeps himself busy in class writing notes to John – all carefully vague and without any identifying information – because they rarely get time to themselves during the week, and Alex has never been good at moderation. They steal whatever moments they can, though John is usually cautious at school. Other than ‘don’t tell anyone,’ they haven’t really set rules or parameters, so Alex mostly follows John’s lead, taking whatever John gives him.

During newspaper, Angelica is on the warpath, another print deadline on the horizon, so John is quick to volunteer to pick up a toner cartridge from the library when they run out.

“I’ll help,” Alex offers immediately.

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Angelica asks, “Is that really a two-person job?”

“We’ll both be out of your way,” John points out.

Angelica shakes her head, but apparently John’s argument is convincing. “Whatever. Be back here in 15 minutes, or I’ll send Eliza after you, and then none of us will be happy.”

John salutes her, and Alex doesn’t hesitate to shove him towards the door. “We’ll be back in ten, don’t even worry,” he promises.

The hallways are mostly empty, and the school library isn’t far from the computer lab that houses the student newspaper. There’s time to spare when they reach it, though the librarian looks up at them with suspicion when they walk through the doors.

“Just picking up toner for the newspaper,” John tells her, smiling wide.

She huffs out a quiet breath before dropping her gaze back to the computer, clearly having had her share of obnoxious students for the day. “Supply closet in the back. Don’t take more than one, or I’ll know.”

“Right. Thanks.” John gives Alex a look as soon as he turns around, and Alex has to slap a hand over his mouth to cover his laugh. They make their way through the library towards the supply closet, past empty tables meant for studying and tall windows with the shades pulled half-shut against the afternoon sun.

Darting a quick glance around to make sure they’re alone, John grabs Alex’s hand before they reach the supply closet and tugs him down one of the rows of books in the back of the library, where they’re hidden from view from the librarian’s desk near the doors.

Alex’s pulse kicks up. “What are you doing?” he whispers.

“What are _we_ doing,” John corrects, tugging on Alex’s wrist until Alex nearly stumbles into him. John steadies him with his free hand, holding onto Alex’s hip. “I can’t wait until Saturday, and we’re running out of national parks.”

Pressing his lips together against a smile, Alex says, “Angelica is going to kill us if we aren’t back in--” He glances at his wrist, where he’s not actually wearing a watch. “I don’t know, but it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to update our last will and testament.”

“Then let me die a happy man,” John tells him, pulling Alex closer by the hip. Alex’s hands land on John’s shoulders for balance, then slide up his neck to his face of their own free will. He presses his mouth to John’s, a quick, wet slide of lips before he pulls back, aware of just how easy it would be for the librarian to walk past this row and spot them. John has a particularly cute freckle just below his eye, though, and another one on the ridge of his cheek, so Alex darts in to press quick kisses to them, helpless.

There’s a quiet noise at the far end of the row, a muted sort of thump, but when Alex glances over, there’s no sign of the librarian.

All the same, he takes a step back, untangling himself from John.

“Noooo,” John complains, hooking a finger through Alex’s beltloop to try to reel him back in. “As long as we’re quiet, it’s fine, she won’t catch us.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Alex tells him, trying to hold back a laugh as he dances out of John’s reach. “I’ll have you up against a bookcase and knock the whole thing over, and we’ll never live it down.”

John wiggles his eyebrows. “What a story for the grandkids though, right?”

“You’re a terrible influence,” Alex tells him, but gives in, kissing the corner of John’s mouth (and his jaw, and the pulse point on his neck) before he manages to tear himself away.

They make it back to newspaper in 16 minutes with the toner in hand, and Angelica only yells at them for five.

-

Alex is distracted playing an increasingly stupid game that involves nudging John’s foot more and more aggressively under the lunch table without attracting anyone else’s attention, and only realizes that Hercules is trying to talk to him when Hercules flicks a balled-up napkin at Alex’s face.

It’s possible he’s lost the game.

“Sorry, what?” he asks, ignoring John’s muffled snort of laughter. Under the table, John lifts his foot only to press it down on Alex’s toes. Alex yanks his leg back, scuffing his sole on the floor.

“I _said_ ,” Hercules huffs, “are any of you planning to go to prom? There’s a rumor about an after party at Madison’s – don’t make that _face_ , Hamilton – but we might have to at least make an appearance at prom if we wanna go.”

“Prom’s like, a month away,” John says, giving up on trying to kick Alex and settling for pressing his knee against Alex’s instead. It’s incredibly distracting.

“Do we really wanna go to a party at Madison’s, anyway?” Alex asks, working hard to keep his voice normal. “Besides, Laf gave up drinking. Didn’t you?”

“Ah, well, you see.” Lafayette sips delicately at his bottled water. “I have reconsidered my position on drinking, as it were.”

Traitor. Alex rolls his eyes. “Okay, but if it’s at Madison’s, Jefferson will definitely be there, and if Jefferson is there, I can’t possibly be held responsible for my own actions.”

Grinning, Lafayette tells him, “He is not so bad when you are not constantly picking fights with him, you know.”

Alex snorts. “You only like him because he thinks you’re cool just ‘cause you’re French.”

Holding out his hands, palms up, Lafayette says, “I don’t see the issue. I am both cool _and_ French.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Hercules cuts in. “If we could focus, please, gents. There is an actual point to this conversation. If we have to make an appearance at prom, we can’t all show up without dates. That would just be sad.”

Alex and John very carefully do not look at each other, and Alex takes a bite of taco so he doesn’t have to say anything. Lafayette hums thoughtfully. “I was thinking perhaps of asking Adrienne.”

Hercules looks impressed. “The French exchange student? Nice, bro.”

Preening, Lafayette says, “There are certain perks to being both cool and French.” When Alex laughs, Lafayette pins him with a disarmingly sharp smile. “And who were you planning on asking, mon ami? Did you have a special someone in mind?”

Alex freezes, the mouthful of taco turning to ash in his mouth, but Hercules doesn’t miss a beat. “I bet Eliza would go with you. She’s always flirting with you in the hall.” It’s impossible to tell from the tone of Hercules’ voice if he’s being sincere or laying a trap. Under the table, John shifts his leg away from Alex’s.

Choking on his taco, Alex has to cough into his fist a few times before he can get out, “Oh, um. We don’t really – I mean, I’m not—”

“Think you’re a fucking matchmaker, don’t you, bro?” John finally cuts in, saving Alex from stumbling his way into a corner. His smile is wide. Almost too wide. “Who exactly do you plan on asking, Herc?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Hercules says calmly, like he’s being reasonable, and Alex sputters.

“Bro, you can’t give me the third degree and then refuse to answer the question yourself!”

“So _defensive_ ,” Lafayette says. “I think—”

They don’t find out what Lafayette thinks because the bell rings, dismissing them from lunch. Alex tries to catch John’s eye, to signal that they probably need to talk about their friends growing suspicions, but John’s out the door too quickly. He ducks out the door after him, mostly so Lafayette and Herc can’t stop him and continue this nightmare of a conversation.

Alex takes the long way to 5th period, hoping to burn off some of the uneasy feeling lunch has left him with. He composes texts to John in his head as he walks, dismissing them each in turn. It leaves him distracted enough that he nearly bumps into Burr, of all people, and Alex swears under his breath as he pulls up short.

“I’m not in the mood today, man,” he says when Burr opens his mouth to share whatever bit of wisdom he thinks Alex needs now. “Like, pearls before swine and all that. I’m the swine in this metaphor, and you’re the dude wasting pearls, if it wasn’t clear.”

“I don’t—” Burr frowns. “You really do talk too much. Look, I just wanted to say I think it’s a violation of privacy. You don’t deserve that.”

“Um. Thanks?” Burr hadn’t been sitting near them at lunch, and it’s a little worrisome if someone overheard their conversation and it somehow got to Burr already. “It’s not really your business, though.”

“Yes,” Burr says slowly. “That’s my point.”

“Okay? Whatever, dude. I’m gonna be late to class.” Alex doesn’t walk towards his 5th period classroom, though. He makes a detour to the bathrooms by the chem lab to give himself a minute to breathe, hands braced on the porcelain sink as he lets the water run, still puzzling over Burr’s odd words.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

> _Hi –_
> 
> _I write you a note at least once a day and you’ve written me how many back – three??? Don’t tell me you’re too busy paying attention in class when you could be paying attention to me. Okay I’m joking. Kind of. I know you say I drive you crazy but you should know it’s a two way street. It’s your fault I’m distracted ‘cause I can’t stop thinking about the next time I get to see you and the way your eyes light up. Even thinking about your eyes in general distracts me. Words don’t usually fail me, but finding the right ones to describe your eyes is nearly impossible. Whenever I think I’ve got it right, I look into them again and realize I haven’t even come close._
> 
> _Do you keep the notes I write you, or do you burn them to hide the evidence? I think they will be mortifying to read in a few years. Probably even in a few weeks. Actually, I’m mortified right now rereading what I’ve written already. What have you done to me?? I don’t think I should be held responsible for the disgustingly sappy things you make me write. I blame you for all of this. I hope for both our sakes you do burn these notes._
> 
> _Yours, always_
> 
> _Ps. If you’re worried that I blame you, don’t be. You’ll be able to distract me easily enough. Have I mentioned what your eyes do to me??_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this thing is officially out of hand. as always, thank you for the comments/kudos - they are very much appreciated xoxo. you can also come say hi on [tumblr](https://finestfaceoncurrency.tumblr.com/)!


	9. nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your pride will be the death of us all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well folks this was a tough one to write. this chapter is the reason for that homophobia tag. there's also some minor violence.

There’s a reason Alex prefers the bathrooms by the chem lab, but today, it turns out to be a pivotal mistake. Burr doesn’t follow him, thank god, having learned his lesson about awkward moments with Alex in bathrooms. When the door does swing open shortly after Alex enters, though, it’s almost worse, because Thomas fucking Jefferson comes prancing in. Madison, of course, is right on his fucking heels.

Jefferson looks surprised to see Alex for all of two seconds before his eyes gleam. Alex is instantly on high alert.

“Hamilton,” Jefferson drawls. “Hiding out already? But I thought the library was your special spot.” The words make sense individually, but are nonsense altogether, the context lacking. Half a pace behind Jefferson, Madison crosses his arms over his chest, a defensive stance that does nothing to soothe the alarm bells going off in Alex’s head.

Alex immediately goes on the offense. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Tilting his head in mock concern, Jefferson asks, “Or is the bathroom your preferred location for trysts? I gotta say, Hamilton, I expected a touch more discretion from you, and you know how much I hate to be proven wrong.” Jefferson’s smile is all white, even teeth. Somehow, he still reminds Alex of a shark.

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about, dude,” Alex tells him, but Burr’s earlier words echo uneasily in his head, and Alex is afraid he might know exactly what Jefferson is talking about.

“You mean you haven’t seen?” Jefferson can’t keep the glee out of his voice, though he’s clearly trying to sound innocent.

Alex is still gripping the sink, knuckles a shade of white that matches the porcelain. Each one of Jefferson’s words is a lapping wave, slowly eating away his self-control. Alex can feel it slipping away.

“I don’t think he’s seen,” Madison says, eyes flicking back and forth between Alex and Jefferson, his mouth pulled into the slightest of smirks.

Jefferson pulls out his phone, thumbing over the screen and studying it carefully. “I’ll give you this, Hamilton. You certainly know your best angle.”

There’s a rushing noise in Alex’s ears. He’s suddenly in front of Jefferson, though he doesn’t remember taking a step. Snatching the phone out of Jefferson’s hand – Jefferson lets him, which Alex will only register later – Alex looks at the image on the screen, and his stomach bottoms out.

There is zero doubt that the picture is of Alex, his face caught in profile, his sleek, black ponytail visible over the collar of his Lake Forest blue blazer. That’s definitely Alex’s mouth, pressed intimately to the skin along John’s jawline, his hand curled against John’s neck, John’s hand resting nearly on his ass.

Only, Alex’s head blocks John’s features. It’s impossible to tell which Lake Forest student Alex is obviously kissing in the library, just that it’s a boy.

“Oh, fuck,” Alex breathes.

Jefferson steals his phone back from Alex’s numb fingers.

“Who’s the lucky lady?” Jefferson is asking, but his smug sarcasm is all but lost on Alex, whose entire focus is on keeping in control, on breathing, just breathing, just fucking _breathe_.

“You know, I don’t think that’s a lady at all,” Madison replies as if they’ve rehearsed this schtick, nudging Jefferson in the side like it’s a fun little inside joke between the three of them.

Jefferson’s mouth drops open in pretend surprise. “ _Alexander_! Don’t tell me all those insults in Gov were just you pulling my pigtails. You know I don’t swing that way, sweetheart.”

There’s no way the bell for 5th period hasn’t rung with the amount of time Alex has been in the bathroom, but he doesn’t remember hearing it. He curls his fingers into fists, nails biting into his palms, and the pain grounds him, gives him something to focus on besides his churning stomach.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Thomas,” he bites out between clenched teeth. “Homophobia’s not a good look on you.” Dragging his eyes pointedly up and down Jefferson’s body, he adds, “And blue really isn’t your color.”

This time, the surprise on Jefferson’s face is real. He recovers quickly, although his smile isn’t quite as sharp. “There are those claws. Relax, man. We’re just having some fun. When are you going to learn to take a joke?”

Alex’s palms are slick. He hopes it’s sweat and not blood, but he’s too afraid to uncurl his fingers to check. “Maybe when the punchline starts being funny. Excuse me, I’m late for class.”

He pushes past Jefferson and Madison, but he doesn’t head to 5th period. Instead, he ducks out the first set of doors he passes, which puts him near the faculty parking lot. Alex walks as quickly as he can to the edge of the school grounds before anyone spots him and tries to stop him, and then keeps going until he reaches a park a couple blocks away.

It’s empty despite the sunny spring weather, because it’s early afternoon on a school day, and Alex drops heavily onto a swing, grabbing hold of the chains to keep his balance. His palms sting, but upon inspection, aren’t bleeding; there are a number of dark pink crescents carved into the skin, though.

It takes a while for Alex to regain control of his breathing, and longer for the feeling like he’s going to throw up to pass.

He eventually pulls his phone out, shooting off a quick text to John.

**Call me. We need to talk ASAP.**

Alex’s phone rings in less than 15 minutes.

“Where are you?” John asks before Alex can say anything. There’s background noise – the cacophony of a hallway crowded with students. Alex guesses 5th period is over.

Pressing the phone close to his ear, he shrugs one shoulder, even though John can’t see him. “I don’t know. Some park. I couldn’t—” He cuts himself off, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Yeah, I know,” John says, voice tense. “Christ, what a mess.”

Alex’s thoughts are a shifting kaleidoscope, or grains of sand falling through cracks between fingers. It takes him longer than normal to catch hold of a thought, to make sense of it. “How did you – did you talk to Jefferson already?”

“Jefferson?” John sounds as confused as Alex feels. “No, Eliza told me.”

Alex plants his feet and almost pitches himself off the swing when his momentum carries him forward. “Eliza?” It occurs to Alex for the first time that if Jefferson had caught him and John in the library that day, he probably would’ve confronted them on the spot. And how would Burr have known?

Which means it was probably someone else who took the picture. Someone else who sent it to Jefferson – and how many other people?

“Yeah,” John says. “She saw the picture on Instagram, or maybe Facebook? She said she reported it, but since it’s not, you know… she wasn’t sure if they’d take it down.”

Alex swallows thickly, gripping his phone tighter as it starts to slip in his sweat-damp grip. “It’s posted online?”

John’s quiet for a moment. “What park are you at?”

-

Alex shoves his phone back into his pocket while he waits for John. He pushes himself back and forth on the swing with one foot in time with his breathing. Inhale. Push back. Exhale. Push forward. Repeat.

He’s so lost in the rhythm of it that he startles when John walks into his line of vision, his face pale and expression grim.

“Won’t your dad be pissed when he finds out you cut class?” Alex asks as soon as John’s within earshot, though what he means to say is _thank you for coming_ , or maybe _please don’t let me be alone_.

“Fuck my dad,” John says. He sits on the swing next to Alex, and it creaks under his weight. Instead of matching Alex’s slow rocking, he pushes himself to the side until he crashes into Alex, grabbing hold of the chain on Alex’s swing to hold them together. Maybe what he means to say is _you’re welcome_ , or even _we’re in this together_.

Alex’s eyes are suddenly hot with unshed tears, and he blinks rapidly, keeping his head ducked.

“We can get the picture taken down,” John says with determination. “You’re a minor, and George is a fucking senator. He can make it happen.”

“It’s not like it’s actual child pornography,” Alex points out as soon as he finds his voice, eyes still on the ground. “And anyway, the damage is already done, isn’t it? If _Eliza_ has seen it—”

Softly, John says, “I know. The rest of the school probably has too.” He slides his hand down the chain until his fingers are just brushing Alex’s, an anchoring touchpoint. Loud birdsong filters down from the trees, tiny green buds peppering their thin branches. It’s a weird soundtrack for Alex’s life to fall apart to.

He sucks in a shaky breath. “I can’t – the way Jefferson _looked_ at me, I—”

John’s grip tightens. “I’ll break his fucking jaw.”

Shaking his head, Alex asks, “And if your dad can’t buy your way out of juvie again? I can’t do this alone, John. I need—” He cuts himself off, sucking in another breath. John is quiet next to him, waiting for Alex to gather his thoughts, to string them together into something coherent. “I meant what I said that day at the zoo,” he finally gets out. “I’m not afraid of them. But I’m afraid of what I might do if they get under my skin.”

Leaning to the side until his shoulder touches Alex’s and his swing groans under his shifting weight, John says, “We could both punch Jefferson at the same time and go to juvie together. Maybe we’d be cellmates.”

Alex nudges John’s ankle with his foot, throwing him off balance so that their swings rock violently against each other. “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard, and I live with Lafayette.”

“I don’t like problems we can’t punch our way out of,” John admits, and it surprises a hoarse laugh out of Alex.

“You know you’re my favorite person, right?” Alex asks him, his heart lodged firmly in his throat.

“Yeah? Even after all this, you don’t regret picking me over Eliza?”

Alex’s mouth goes dry. It’s hard to push the words out past his suddenly uncooperative tongue. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”

Slowly, deliberately, John lowers his hand until his fingers slot between Alex’s, holding on tight. “No. Never. I just… I wish things didn’t have to be so fucking hard, you know?”

Digging his toe into the ground, Alex pushes himself back and forth on the swing, making both of them sway. “That makes two of us.”

-

John decides to go back to school before the start of 7th period to avoid the worst of his dad’s wrath for cutting class, but Alex recognizes the signs of his self-control slipping and knows that the whispers and looks that will follow him the rest of the day will set him off.

“I’ll take the bus home, it’s fine, don’t worry,” he insists. “Tell Angelica I’ll still have my article done, okay?”

“Okay. If you’re sure,” John agrees, sounding more than a little reluctant. He leans down to press a quick kiss to Alex’s temple. “I’ll call you later, yeah?”

Alex waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Quit stalling and get back to school. I’ll be fine.” It’s not a lie so much as it’s a goal, which Alex thinks is an important distinction.

Unlike in the city, bus stops are few and far between in the suburbs, so Alex has to walk another fifteen minutes before he reaches the nearest one, and then has to take a transfer before walking another twenty to the Washingtons. In the end, he gets home around the same time as he would’ve if he’d stayed at school and had John drive him home after newspaper, but least his knuckles aren’t bruised and bloody.

Lafayette doesn’t wait for Alex to reach his room before ambushing him, catching him in the entryway the second he walks through the front door.

“Alex. What—"

“I am not,” Alex cuts him off, kicking off his shoes and dropping his heavy backpack, “in the mood.” His shoulders hurt from carrying the weight his books, as well as the stress, and it’s likely the school has already notified George and Martha about the classes he missed. Won’t Abigail love that report?

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Lafayette says quickly. He puts his hand on Alex’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “I just want you to know I’m here for you, yes?”

Alex spent both bus rides with his forehead pressed to the window, hugging his backpack close and replaying Jefferson and Madison’s words over and over in his head; the cruelness Jefferson wielded with the precision of a scalpel, every nuance of the interaction meant to belittle and mock him. Didn’t Burr warn him not to put a target on his back? That Jefferson wouldn’t miss?

“You say that,” Alex tells him. “But would you help me bury a body?”

To his credit, Lafayette merely blinks in surprise once before his mouth curves into the slightest of smiles. “For you, I would. But surely there are easier, less distasteful ways to handle the situation, non?”

Pursing his lips, Alex says, “No, no, I think murder is the best option.”

Slipping his arm over Alex’s shoulders, Lafayette steers him in the direction of the kitchen. “Why don’t we start with a snack? You know what they say: you can’t plan a murder on an empty stomach.”

“Do they say that in France?”

Grin going crooked, Lafayette insists, “No, mon ami, that is an American phrase, I am sure of it.”

Lafayette makes Alex sit at the table, then scoops entirely too much ice cream into a bowl. Digging through the cupboards, he adds some gummy bears, chocolate syrup, one giant marshmallow, and is about to add a spoonful of peanut butter when Alex grabs the bowl, pulling it out of Lafayette’s reach. “Yeah, no, this is more than enough. Thanks, I think.”

Looking pleased with himself, Lafayette plops himself into the chair across Alex’s before asking, “Who doesn’t love a sundae? Now, about this murder—”

Digging a red gummy bear out with his spoon, Alex pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly. “Probably not feasible to take out the entire student body, huh?”

“I think,” Lafayette says delicately, “that unless you are more, ah, discriminant than that, you may end up with innocent blood on your hands.”

Alex’s stomach twists, protesting the single gummy bear he’s managed so far. He pushes the bowl of ice cream away. “I just – it was going so _well_. And now a stupid picture has ruined everything.”

Eyes going wide with alarm, Lafayette asks, “Are you and John no longer--?”

Alex narrows his eyes. “How did you know it was John? You can’t see his face.”

Lafayette reaches across the table and flicks Alex’s forehead. “Mon chou, of course it was John. You have had eyes for no one else since you met him.”

“Well, there was Eliza—”

“We would be having a very different conversation if you got caught kissing Eliza in the library,” Lafayette points out. “And while I would very much like to not murder John, if he hurt you—”

The gummy bear in Alex’s stomach does a strange little jig, and his eyes suddenly sting a little. “I—” He has to swallow to get the words out. “No, no, John’s not – I mean, we – you’d really take my side?”

Lafayette’s expression melts into something soft. “Of course. You are my brother, Alex. Now, don’t think I wouldn’t murder you if _you_ hurt _John_ —”

Alex laughs a little wetly. “I get it, I get it. We won’t hurt each other, okay? Problem solved.”

“An excellent solution!” Lafayette beams. “And can we now stop pretending that you and John are not a thing?”

Alex winces. “Were we that obvious?”

“To everyone else, maybe not, but to me and Herc?”

“Herc?” Alex repeats. “The same Herc who asked me at lunch today if I was going to prom with Eliza?”

Reaching a hand out, Lafayette plucks a green gummy bear from Alex’s bowl, popping it into his mouth. “I told him subtly would not work, but did he listen? No.”

“To be fair,” Alex says dryly, dragging his spoon through his ice cream until he carves a riverbank that spills chocolate syrup in a slow, lazy waterfall, “while being outed to the entire school was a more obvious way to get me and John to admit to anything, it really wasn’t my preferred option.”

It’s Lafayette’s turn to wince. “Do you have any idea who took the picture? George can—”

Shaking his head violently, Alex stabs his spoon into the ice cream. “No, no, I don’t want to involve George or Martha in this.”

“Alex...” Lafayette fidgets with discomfort.

“No, I’m serious, Laf. It’s like you said – we wouldn’t be having this conversation if it was Eliza who I was caught kissing in the library. We wouldn’t be _having_ a conversation, because there’d be nothing to talk about! The fact that some asshole—” Alex huffs, shoulders hunched nearly to his ears. “I’m not going to go running to the nearest adult because people think it’s funny to laugh at the bi kid. We both know that’s pointless.”

Lafayette opens his mouth, then closes it, lips compressed. Finally, he asks, “What are you going to do, then?”

“I have no idea,” Alex says honestly. With his spoon, he nudges one of the gummy bears into the chocolate syrup lake at the bottom of his bowl and watches it drown. “To start with, maybe you can help me come up with a plausible lie for why I skipped school this afternoon?”

Rubbing his hands together, Lafayette grins. “Oh, yes. This is something within my skillset. Now, let’s see…”

-

No one else is as bold as Jefferson or Madison, but Alex feels eyes on the back of his neck wherever he goes at school; hears whispers that die down as soon as he’s within earshot.

“Assholes,” John mutters, but he doesn’t sit as close to Alex as he normally does at lunch, or nudge Alex’s foot under the table. He makes no move to fix Alex’s constantly wrinkled collar, or brush lint off his shoulder, or use any of the flimsy excuses to touch Alex that he normally does.

Alex shrugs one shoulder. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

“Well, that’s some bullshit if I’ve ever heard it,” Herc says, and Alex jerks his gaze up. Herc’s expression is neutral, but there’s tension in the way he’s gripping his carton of milk. Holding Alex’s eye, he says, “We’re not going to sit back and let a bunch of fucking homophobes run their mouths. We’ve got your back, man.”

Alex takes a drink of his water to give himself a moment. “I—” he flounders under the intensity of Hercules’ gaze. “I mean, I appreciate that, I do, but no one’s actually saying anything.” Besides Jefferson, but that’s a nonstarter. “I’ve just dropped to the bottom of the pecking order, you know?”

“I hear you,” Herc says. “But I’m telling you: we’ve got your back.”

Alex doesn’t know what he’s done to earn the loyalty of friends like these, and he responds the only way he knows how: shoving a giant bite of food in his mouth so that he doesn’t actually have to respond at all.

-

Hercules clearly means what he says, because he starts showing up at school early enough to meet Alex and Lafayette at their lockers and walk with Alex to their first period calculus class, hiding his yawn behind his hand.

“What are you, my personal body guard?” Alex asks him. Herc normally rolls in three seconds before the bell with coffee in hand; Alex isn’t sure if he’s started getting up earlier or forgone his daily Starbucks run.

Herc flexes. “You should be so lucky. These guns are a certified weapon in five states.” His arms are admittedly impressively muscled, but Alex still snorts out a laugh.

“You’re unbelievable, dude.”

He doesn’t have the protection of Herc’s moral support (or biceps) in third period, but at least Jefferson knows better than to say something truly idiotic within earshot of their teacher. Burr fixes him with a troubled expression once or twice, but doesn’t approach Alex before or after class, which is fine by Alex.

Eliza, of course, takes the first opportunity she has to corner Alex.

“Um. Hi,” Alex says, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck just outside the door to newspaper. John told him he left something in his car, leaving Alex on his own for the walk from 7th period.

“Hi,” Eliza says. “You haven’t answered my texts. Can we talk?”

“Oh, well – I think I’m on Angelica’s shit list since I missed yesterday, so I—”

“—can spare a minute for your favorite Schuyler sister.” Eliza gives him no chance to argue, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him into the nearest empty classroom.

“Ow,” Alex mutters when she drops his arm. She’s got such a strong grip.

Eliza takes a deep breath. “Look, I just wanted to say—”

Holding up a hand, Alex stops her. “If this is about the picture, I’m sorry, but I really, really do not want to hear another word about that particular topic.”

Eliza chews on her bottom lip for a second. “Okay. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you, so that’s understandable if you – I just wanted you to know that I’m here for you, okay? And not in that vague, ‘you know you can talk to me whenever’ sort of way. I mean, reporting anyone on social media who reposts the picture, and calling out anyone who thinks it’s okay to something hateful towards you, and – and using the newspaper, if we have to, to make a public service announcement about acceptance and tolerance, which are both in the student code of conduct, by the way.”

For a long moment, Alex just stares at her, taken aback by the determination in her voice. “You’re passionate about this. Was our kiss that good?”

Eliza swats his arm. “Don’t be an idiot. It was fine.”

“Oh, _ouch_ —”

“Focus, Alexander, _please_.” Eliza’s dark brown eyes are very intense. Alex can’t look away. “This isn’t about just you, yeah? As far as I know, there’s never been an openly gay student at Lake Forest.”

Alex’s mouth is open before he can even think about it. “Well, I’m bi, first of all. Like, I did kiss you for a reason.”

“Okay, that’s not – I need you to use that big brain of yours and keep up with me here, Alex. For better or worse, this is going to be your legacy here.”

“Pretty sure it’s for worse,” Alex points out, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Like, being out was not a choice I made, you know what I’m saying? There’s a reason no one before me made that choice, either.”

“But you could be reason someone else _does_. That’s what I’m saying. That’s why this is so important to me. No one should have to hide who they are because they’re afraid. You’re in a position, whether you like it or not, to do something about it.”

“Oh,” Alex says in a small voice. “I—” He pauses, licks his lips. “I see what you’re saying, but I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t _want_ this.”

Nodding quickly, Eliza tells him, “I know you didn’t. And that it’s not – it’s not necessarily your responsibility, either. I’m sorry if I pushed it too far. I just wanted you to know that I’m here. Angelica is here. We’ll do anything in our power to help you.”

For a moment, Alex allows himself to study Eliza’s face; her unflinching dark eyes and the steel in the set of her pretty mouth. “Who are you trying to make this school safer for?” he asks her as gently as he can.

Surprise flickers briefly over her features, and he knows he guessed right. Eliza rewards him with the smallest of smiles. “That’s not really for me to say, is it?”

“I guess not,” Alex agrees.

Tilting her chin up, Eliza presses her lips to Alex’s cheek in a kiss so brief Alex thinks he might’ve imagined it. She makes for the door then, and Alex follows her back across the hall to newspaper before Angelica unleashes her wrath.

“You okay, man?” John asks him in a low voice when Alex slips through the door, folding himself into his usual spot next to John.

Alex shrugs. “Yeah. Just a lot of my mind.”

-

The whispers slowly die down, but it feels less like the storm has blown over, and more like the eye of the hurricane: the air too still, crackling with electricity and the promise the damage is far from over.

John’s still keeping his distance at school. It’s only a matter of inches, hardly noticeable to anyone but Alex, but every one of them feels like a mile, and Alex has no idea how to bridge the gap.

Instead, he throws himself even more fully into his work, holing up in his room for hours at a time, reading and writing and studying. Friday night, he falls asleep with his cheek pressed to an open page of his textbook, and wakes up with a sore neck and groggy eyes, feeling like he didn’t sleep at all.

He helps himself to a late breakfast of cereal, hunching over the counter as he shovels it into his mouth. Lafayette walks into the kitchen with a cheerful good morning, and Alex grunts in reply, chewing slowly. His exhaustion must be making his reflexes slow, because when Lafayette darts his hand in to poke at the bruised skin under Alex’s eye, he’s late batting it away.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, well aware of just how dark the bags under his eyes have gotten.

There’s the sound of heavy footsteps in the doorway, and Alex swallows hastily as George’s looming figure enters the kitchen. “I meant, uh, go away.”

“Good morning, Alex,” George says, a wry smile twisting his mouth. “Is Gilbert bothering you?”

“Never,” Lafayette declares.

Alex shoves another big bite of cereal into his mouth to avoid the conversation, jaw working as he chews. He flinches when one of George’s big hands lands on his shoulder, and they all pretend not to notice. George gives him a reassuring, almost apologetic squeeze before dropping his hand. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone, Alex. Why don’t you take some time off and have some fun today?”

Alex has to chew a few more times before he can swallow. “Oh, I—”

“Yes, Alex, let’s go have some fun!” Lafayette interrupts.

Alex recognizes a losing battle when he sees one. “Just don’t make me go bowling again.”

-

There’s no stopping a determined Lafayette, and before Alex knows it, he’s riding shotgun with John and Herc in the backseat, windows rolled down and wind in their hair.

“We could go to the Waffle Shack,” Herc suggests, since Lafayette doesn’t seem to be driving them to any particular destination. “I could go for some bacon.”

“Non! I want to be outside! I want to feel the sun on my skin!”

Herc considers this. “We could get a table by the window.”

Lafayette boos. Alex tries to catch John’s eye in the rearview mirror, but John is looking out the window, gaze unfocused. Cranking the music up until the car pulses with the beat, Lafayette promises them, “I know just the place.”

Within minutes, he’s pulling to a stop near large park. Unlike the little playground with the swing set, this park boasts a large, sprawling green space, tennis and basketball courts, and even a baseball diamond. They aren’t the only ones taking advantage of the spring weather, but it’s not too crowded.

Hopping out of the car, Lafayette immediately goes around to the trunk to dig around, emerging triumphantly with a basketball. “Two on two?” he asks.

Herc and Lafayette have a slight height advantage, but Alex isn’t afraid to throw an elbow or two, and John’s just as scrappy. What they lack in finesse, or any technical skill whatsoever, they make up for in aggression and a flagrant disregard for the rules.

“Hey, you can’t – that’s a double dribble!” Herc complains for at least the fifth time.

Alex shoots, and the ball glances off the rim. “No, it wasn’t.”

Lafayette jumps for the rebound, grunting when John jabs his elbow into his ribs and wrestles the ball away.

“And that’s a foul,” Lafayette adds, holding his side.

John goes for a layup. “I didn’t hear a whistle.”

“You two are fucking made for each other, you know that?” Herc mops sweat off his forehead with his wrist, expression wrinkled with disgust.

Alex raises his hand, and John slaps his palm against Alex’s. Their fingers catch for a second, and Alex leans in automatically. When John’s eyes widen in alarm, he pulls up short.

“I— sorry,” Alex mutters, shuffling back a step. He reaches up to fix his ponytail, gathering the loose, sweaty strands back to keep his hands busy. “I thought, since they know—”

“Yeah,” John says, just as quietly. “I know. But we’re still – kinda out in the open, you know?”

There’s no one else on the basketball courts, but there is a rag tag bunch of younger kids playing something like baseball – it involves a bat and a ball, at least, though it’s hard to say what set of rules they’re following – and a couple on the tennis courts, the rhythmic thwap of their rackets hitting the ball clear in the warm spring air. It’s hard to say if John’s caution is warranted, especially as the damage is already done. At least, in Alex’s case, it is.

“C’mon,” Lafayette calls, interrupting Alex’s spiraling thoughts. “We’re up, 17-12. First to 21 wins! Let’s _go_!”

“You didn’t think ahead to bring any water or Gatorade, did you?” Herc asks. He’s long since discarded his hoodie along with the rest of them, their outer clothes in a pile on the side of the court.  

Lafayette pretends not to hear him, darting forward to take the ball from John.

Herc shakes his head. “Dude.”

Shooting the ball in a graceful arc that swishes through the net, Lafayette offers, “We’ll go to Waffle Shack after we win, yes? Loser buys the winner lunch.”

“I didn’t agree to those terms,” Alex says at the same time John blurts out, “Oh, fuck that.”

John and Alex lose, 22-16. But Lafayette ends the game with a bloody nose (courtesy of Alex’s shoulder on a block), and Herc with a scraped knee (courtesy of the ground, with an assist from John’s foot connecting with his ankle).

“You still lost,” Lafayette says, but it comes out a little distorted, like he’s got a bad cold.

“Keep your head tilted back,” Alex instructs, pressing a balled-up hoodie to his face to staunch the blood.

“Next time, we’re going bowling,” Lafayette promises darkly.

-

The eye of the storm passes over Alex the following week, after just enough time that his guard is lowered, so that the blow catches him when he’s least prepared for it.

He’s survived another 3rd period class, most of his focus on ignoring Jefferson, and stays back to ask Mr. Jay a couple clarifying questions about the lecture to fill in the gaps his inattention left.

It means he’s running a little late by the time he joins the rush of students in the hallway, and opts to take a shortcut to his 4th period class, even though it means he can’t stop and say hi to Eliza like he normally would. Still, his attendance record isn’t exactly stellar this semester, and like Abigail reminded him on her most recent visit, the court gets a copy of that, along with his grades. He needs to avoid an unnecessary tardy.

Looking back, there is a clear series of events and circumstances that lead to Alex being in that particular corridor at that particular time.

Why Lee is also there seems like nothing short of a cruel twist of fate.

He’s leaning against the wall next to a bank of lockers, eyes on his phone as he types something. It’s the edge of the storm, raging and violent, the safety and stillness of the eye coming to an end.

Alex is so, so close to slipping through unscathed.

But then Lee looks up, and his mouth curls into something ugly and vicious; the snarl of a junkyard dog with a victim in sight.

“Well, if it isn’t Washington’s lapdog,” Lee says, voice dripping with disdain. “Oh, but you’ve been busy, haven’t you? Found someone else’s di—”

“Don’t,” Alex interrupts. “Even think about finishing that sentence. Not another fucking word. I swear to god, dude, I will put you in the hospital.”

Pushing off the wall, Lee rises to his full height, looking down his nose at Alex.

Alex bristles, fingers curling into fists, holding his ground as Lee takes a step forward. “You think I’m going to listen to a little cock-sucking piece of trash like you?” He laughs with no humor. “Or is Laurens the one on his knees? If you ask me, they should throw both of you out.”

“No one asked you,” Alex says with barely contained fury. “Because apparently you didn’t learn your lesson about running that fucking mouth of yours. You want to spout off ignorant bullshit like that, I’m happy to do my part to make sure your jaw gets wired shut.”

He takes a step forward, eyes locked on Lee’s small, beady ones, but a sudden hand on his chest stops him.

“Alexander,” says a low voice. “Leave it, man.”

Beneath the hand holding him back, Alex’s chest is rising and falling rapidly. Alex’s eyes drop to the hand, dark fingers splayed over the polo shirt under his blazer, follow up the arm, and land at last on Aaron fucking Burr’s face.

Burr has wedged himself in between Alex and Lee, and he edges Alex back a step.

“Walk away, Lee,” he instructs. He doesn’t raise his voice, but it rings with authority all the same. “Don’t make me ask you twice.”

“Fuck this,” Lee mutters. “He’s not worth my time anyway.” He turns away, and Alex tries to lunge at his back, but Burr holds onto his shirt, pinning him in place. He doesn’t let go until Lee has turned the corner. Alex immediately knocks his hand away.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, still breathing hard.

Burr just stares at him. “I’m sorry, did you want to get expelled for fighting in the hallway? By all means, go ahead and ruin your life. I was just trying to help you out, man.”

“Did you even hear what he said?”

A muscle in Burr’s jaw tenses. “Yes. It doesn’t change the fact that you would be expelled if you threw the first punch.”

“ _It would have been worth it!_ ” Alex explodes.

“You don’t mean that.”

Burr is infuriatingly calm. Alex pokes him hard in the chest, hissing, “ _Yes_ , I do. How can you stand there and let him get away with saying that shit? You think I’m the only one he mouths off to? You think he saves up all his homophobic rhetoric just for me? That asshole is poison, and you’re just as culpable as he is if you let him just walk away!”

“He knows he’s in the wrong,” Burr says, but he sounds a little doubtful for the first time.

“No, he knows that you aren’t going to say shit the next time he makes a homophobic joke or calls someone else a cock sucker or – oh, now you wanna flinch? Fuck you, Burr.” Adrenaline is coursing through Alex’s veins; he’s primed for a fight, spoiling for it, baiting Burr to give him what he’s been denied.

Burr doesn’t bite. Sounding suddenly tired, he just says, “Go to class, Alex.”

Alex is late, and doesn’t take in a single word of the lesson.

-

That night, he finds himself pacing in his room, still pissed at Lee, at Burr, at Jefferson, at the wedge they’ve driven between him and John, at whoever took the picture and spread it around.

It’s exploding inside of him, the rage and the shame and the longing, feelings too complex for him to separate and name, let alone understand. Alex just recognizes the way his pulse kicks up, the dampness slicking his palms, the buzzing in his ears; signs he’s not okay, that he needs to do something before it boils into something out of his control.

He counts to ten, then counts to ten again, forcing himself to take deep, steadying breaths.

Then he picks up his phone.

Eliza answers on the second ring. “Hey. What’s up? You okay?”

Alex takes another deep breath. “I need your help.”

-

He and Eliza discuss his plan, argue over the logistics, and finally recruit Angelica.

Eliza puts the phone on speaker, while Alex keeps his voice pitched low, mindful of Lafayette in the room next door.

“Is it possible?” Alex asks. “That’s all I need to know.”

Angelica sighs audibly. “Yes, it’s _possible_ , but—”

“Great. Then let’s do it.”

“I know you’re a ‘leap before you look’ sort of person,” Angelica says dryly, and Alex has a moment of panic, convinced she knows about him and Eliza, “but for once in your life, exercising a little caution might be wise.”

Alex shakes his head even though no one can see. “No, no, I’m not going to sit back and wait for it to work out on its own. It’s like Eliza said. I’m in a position where I can do something about this. Make it better for someone else.”

There’s a doubtful pause – how Angelica can make a pause doubtful, Alex doesn’t know, but she’s managed it – and then a muffled noise in the background, followed by another, fainter voice that’s hard to hear.

“What are you guys doing?”

“Nothing, Pegs,” Angelica says quickly.

“Making the world a better place,” Eliza tells her with conviction. “You won’t even recognize it by the time we’re done.”

“You guys are weird,” Peggy decides. She must leave, then, because Alex doesn’t hear her voice again. He starts to wonder, though, Eliza’s earlier words echoing in his head.

“Okay,” Angelica says at last. “If you’re sure you want to do this, type it up and give it to me first for editing. If we’re using school equipment, then I need to approve of the final draft. That’s non-negotiable.”

“That’s fair,” Alex agrees. “I’ll have it you tomorrow morning.”

He starts writing the second he gets off the phone, the words pouring out feverishly.

-

It takes a few days, haggling over revisions with Angelica, and then for her to get permission to use the newspaper equipment.

“Well,” Angelica equivocates, handing Alex a thick stack of papers, still warm from the printer. “I didn’t end up getting permission so much as begging for forgiveness.”

Alex stares at her. “You did – for me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Yes, for you, but also for – for everyone who comes after you. This is important, Alex.”

He grips the stack of papers hard, then immediately catches himself before he can wrinkle them. “Thank you.”

Shaking her head, she leans in, kissing his cheek. “Thank _you_. And John. You’re both pretty incredible for doing this.”

“Oh, well—” Alex’s face is suddenly hot. “Let’s just hope he says yes, yeah?”

Angelica gives him an odd look he can’t – or won’t – interpret, but now that he’s got the papers in hand, nerves are starting to twist his gut. It’s now or never.

With Eliza’s help, Alex pins sheets to bulletin boards, tapes them to lockers, posts them on bathroom doors. They spread the papers far and wide across the school, until the usual buzz roars into a crescendo.

“You think they read it?” Alex asks her, his sweaty hands shoved in his pocket.

She nods. “I think so.”

It’s early yet, still time until the warning bell before 1st period sounds, but Alex’s paper is still the number one thing on everyone’s lips. The whispers don’t die down as students pass him this time, curious eyes lingering, making him feel like an animal at the zoo.

“This isn’t what I was expecting,” he confesses to Eliza.

“What did you expect?” she starts to ask, but they’re interrupted before he can answer.

John nearly barrels into them, pulling up at the very last second. His eyes are wild, and there’s a scrunched piece of paper in his hands. Alex can just make out the heading – _LAKE FOREST TIMES: SPECIAL EDITION_.

“Hi,” Alex says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“What the fuck is this?” John doesn’t sound mad.

He sounds devastated.

“I—” Alex fumbles, looks to Eliza for help. She stares back at him, wide-eyed.

Shaking the paper in Alex’s face, John repeats, “What the fuck, man? You think this isn’t going to get back to my dad?”

Alex’s mouth goes dry. “What—”

John shoves the paper into Alex’s chest, and Alex’s hands fold around it reflexively. “Fuck you. I can’t – _fuck_ you.”

He’s gone before Alex can react.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

> **LAKE FOREST TIMES: SPECIAL EDITION**
> 
> By Alexander Hamilton
> 
> Lake Forest offers its students privileges that few are lucky to get, and the number one privilege is that of opportunity. A Lake Forest diploma is a one-way ticket to success, opening doors that most students wouldn’t even dream of unlocking. No future is brighter than that of someone who wears Lake Forest blue.
> 
> The privilege of attending Lake Forest, however, is one opportunity barred to most students. And those lucky few who get to pass through its doors find themselves in a world full of rigid, unspoken rules, ensuring that privileges aren’t extended to those who don’t fit the criteria: students who aren’t wealthy enough, aren’t connected enough, aren’t straight enough.
> 
> Yes; that’s one of the loudest unspoken rules at Lake Forest, though you won’t read about it in the student handbook. Lake Forest prides itself on the conduct of its students, has built itself up on pillars of respect, decorum, honor, and knowledge -- but only if you fit the mold, maintain the status quo, and don’t break tradition. Those who don’t have had a very different experience. For too long, our voices have been silenced. For too long, we’ve been powerless. For too long, we’ve accepted the way things are.
> 
> Not anymore. Starting today, starting now, we’re fighting back. We won’t hide in silence, won’t let our allies turn the other cheek. We deserve a place at the table, and we’re going to pull up a chair. We don’t care if you don’t like it.
> 
> There’s no doubt I’m not the first student to attend Lake Forest who wasn’t straight, but I’m the first to say this: I’m bi, and I won’t apologize for it. I won’t hide it.
> 
> I will celebrate it, and I don’t care who knows it. I’m taking my place at the table, starting here, starting now.
> 
> **John, will you go to prom with me?**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for the comments/kudos :):) you can also come yell at me on [tumblr](https://finestfaceoncurrency.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> also quick note - i think there will be 2-3 more chapters + the epilogue. posting schedule will probably remain every two weeks, but we're in the home stretch!


	10. ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you ever see somebody ruin they own life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, warnings for this chapter: more homophobia/microaggressions, some sort of distorted thinking/really terrible coping skills, minor violence, an overabundance of angst and i think that should cover it? let's call this chapter rock bottom, alright.

Alex stands there, dumbfounded, watching as John is swallowed by a sea of Lake Forest blue.

“ _Alex_ ,” Eliza snaps, and it’s only by her tone that he can tell she’s probably said his name more than once.

“What?” he asks, still staring down the hall, even as his vision goes out of focus, the blue blurring into a single, shifting mass.

“You didn’t… did you not tell John about this?”

When he doesn’t immediately answer, Eliza tugs impatiently on his sleeve. “Alex. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Alex snaps himself back into focus, turning towards her. He’s still holding the crumpled paper John shoved into his hands; evidence of a fuck up he’s only now beginning to comprehend the scale of.

“I—” Crushing the paper in his fist, Alex tries to gather his scattered thoughts together. “Of course I didn’t tell him. That’s not how proposals work! It’s supposed to be a surprise, isn’t it? You can’t warn someone it’s coming. That defeats the whole _purpose_.”

Eliza’s eyebrows are pulled together in concern. “I meant the part where you basically told the whole school you were gay, and then heavily implied the same about John.”

Alex bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes the metallic tang of blood. “Bi.”

“What?”

“I’m bi. Not gay.”

“Sure,” Eliza agrees, “but that’s not really—”

“No,” Alex interrupts her, shaking her hand off his sleeve. “It _is_ the fucking point. This was about me taking a stand, wasn’t it? Doing it on my terms? Well that’s my fucking term, okay?” He’s breathing hard, suddenly, and his chest feels tight, his collar noose-like around his neck.

For a moment, Eliza’s expression goes blank. She slowly tucks her hair behind one ear before her hand flutters back down by her side. “You’re right,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”

Alex’s anger deflates, just like that, and if it weren’t for the wall behind him for support, he’d sink to his knees. As it is, he presses his shoulder blades hard against the painted cinderblock, letting it ground him. “I need to talk to John,” he says. “Before things get completely out of hand.”

“I’ll update Angelica,” Eliza offers. “We’ll help with damage control, alright?”

She scurries off, leaving Alex to make the short trek to his 1st period class alone. Herc catches him just outside the door, one eyebrow cocked sky high as he holds up a less crumpled version of the special edition. “What,” he asks, “the hell is this?”

Alex ignores this question. “Have you seen John?”

Herc’s other eyebrow climbs up his forehead. “I have not, but you two idiots should have coordinated with me and Laf before you pulled a stunt like this.” He knocks his knuckles gently into Alex’s shoulder. “We would’ve helped you, you know. And made sure that you weren’t alone to face the fallout.”

“The thing is,” Alex starts to say, licking his lips with a very dry tongue. “The thing is that I did not, um, coordinate this, as you say, with John, either. So, I’m just – his reaction wasn’t quite what I expected, that is, and I—”

Herc takes an actual step backwards. It hits harder than any blow he could’ve delivered. “I’m sorry, are you telling me John wasn’t in on your hairbrained scheme to be the first gay couple at prom?”

“I thought – look, I was taking control of the narrative, alright? Everyone’s already got my name in their mouth, and I just—”

“Are you telling me,” Hercules repeats, holding up the paper. “That John saw this the same time everyone else did?”

Alex’s stomach twists. He starts to open his mouth, though there’s no immediate defense coming to the tip of his tongue, and thinks better of it at the familiar burn in his esophagus. Pushing past Herc, he nearly runs to the nearest bathroom, dropping to his knees and heaving over the toilet. Nothing comes up since he skipped breakfast, too nervous to eat knowing that today was the day to put his plan into motion.

It was apparently the only fucking thing he had any insight whatsoever about. Getting slowly to his feet on shaky legs, Alex makes his way to the sink to wash his hands and rinse out his mouth. He can’t make eye contact with his reflection, but the face looking back at him out of his periphery vision is pale and washed out.

Alex pulls out his phone. There are a couple texts from Eliza and Angelica, and one from Laf that’s just a bunch of exclamation points and question marks.

There’s nothing from John.

Leaning one hip against the sink, Alex types out a reply to Lafayette.

**Not feeling great. Might be coming down with something.**

Laf responds almost immediately, text after text buzzing through.

**Do you need to go home?? Martha will come pick you up**

**Also what is this special edition?????**

**And why didn’t you tell me??? You and john are still keeping secrets!!!**

**Are you really sick or did someone say something to you? Or do something? You know herc and I have your back.**

**We will not let them win**

Alex closes his eyes, breathing deep until a second wave of nausea passes. Every choice in front of him is shit: stay in school and face the growing disappointment as everyone who matters realizes how he’s betrayed John; go to the nurse to have her call Martha and face her sincere concern and pointed questions; skip class and earn himself another phone call home, which will result in a lecture at best and a new placement at worse.

Alex sinks to the ground, back pressed against the wall, and tries not to cry. His chest is tight, every breath burning his throat, and he can’t – he can’t have a panic attack at school, he _can’t_ –

He slams his head back hard enough that it hurts when it connects with the wall, although the pain fades quickly. It’s enough to distract him from his spiraling thoughts, to force the air back in his lungs. Alex counts to five; releases his breath. Counts to five again, sucks in another lungful. He repeats the pattern until his breathing is no longer ragged, then pulls out his phone.

Laf is right. Alex has already thrown down the gauntlet; he can’t let them win. He can’t back down now.

But there’s only one person whose opinion matters to him right now. He opens a new message to John.

**Please call me. Let me explain, okay? Please.**

-

John doesn’t reply.

Alex checks his phone almost constantly all morning, and nearly does end up going to the nurse because his stomach won’t stop hurting. He knows the cause, though, and there’s nothing the nurse can do for him.

By lunch, he’s ready to fall apart. His chest is still tight, threatening to collapse under the pressure, and his heart feels like one big bruise, hammering itself painfully against the cage of his ribs.

“Are you sure you should be here?” Lafayette asks him when Alex slumps into his seat at the lunch table. “You do not look well, mon ami.”

“I’m fine,” Alex mutters. He’s not surprised, just disappointed, to see that John’s not there. “Have either of you heard from John?” he asks Lafayette and Herc, trying and failing to keep the desperation out of his voice.

They exchange a glance that makes Alex’s heart wrench painfully.

“Non,” Lafayette says softly after a moment. “I’m not sure where he is.” It’s obviously a lie, but a gentle one.

Alex nods. “Okay. That’s – I actually have some homework I forgot about, so I need to—” Shoving his chair back with a screech of legs against the floor, he gets to his feet. Neither Laf nor Herc try to talk him out of walking away, which says more than enough.

Plenty of looks and whispers follow him out of the lunchroom, though. Alex keeps his eyes straight ahead, his jaw tight as he makes his way to the door. It’s not that he didn’t expect to be center stage, what with throwing himself into the spotlight.

He just didn’t think through how awful it would feel, standing there on his own.

-

John beats him to 7th period. He’s not sitting in his usual desk near the back, but instead up front and off to the side. His shoulders are hunched and his gaze is fixed on the notebook in front of him, where he’s doodling something with intense concentration.

Alex can take a hint.

But he chooses not to.

Sliding into the open seat next to John, he drops his backpack on the ground at his feet. “Hey,” he whispers. “Can we talk?”

Curling his arm around his drawing, John presses the point of his pencil harder against the paper, the scrape of lead audible with each stroke.

“Please, John,” Alex begs. “Don’t shut me out.”

John’s pencil tip snaps, and he swears under his breath. Ignoring Alex, he gets up and walks to the pencil sharpener. He lingers there until the bell rings, leaving Alex with no opportunity to talk his way into forgiveness.

Alex doesn’t retain a word of the lecture, even though the teacher raps their knuckles on his desk more than once to get him to pay attention. He’s all too aware of John in the desk next to him; every time he shifts in his seat, or coughs, or bites his lip. John doesn’t look Alex’s way even once, like he thinks pretending Alex doesn’t exist will undo all the damage, or make people think Alex was talking about a different John.

Or he can’t stand the sight of Alex anymore. That line of thinking makes Alex’s palms damp with sweat and stomach twist painfully, so he shoves it down deep.

The second class is over, John’s out the door like a shot. Alex scrambles to keep up with him, fighting his way through the crowded hallway on John’s heels. A handful of catcalls follow them, but Alex doesn’t slow long enough to listen.

It’s no surprise that John doesn’t head to newspaper. He’s out the main doors and halfway to the parking lot when Alex catches him.

“John. John, for fuck’s sake, hold up. _Please_.”

Alex’s fingers close around John’s sleeve, pulling him to a stop. John breaks the hold with a vicious tug. “Let go of me.”

“Just – would you let me explain? For just a second?” He’s mindful to keep his voice low, all too aware of the crowd of students around them making their escape from school. This is not the venue Alex would have picked for this conversation, but it might be the only shot he’s got at it.

John’s normally warm eyes are ice. His voice is even colder. “Explain what, exactly? Why you outed me to the whole school?”

Alex smolders, his mouth opening before his brain can catch up. “That’s not fucking fair, and you know it. You think it’s been a fucking treat for me dealing with most of the backlash on my own? Did you forget that both of us were in that picture? Half the school figured out it was you, anyway, and the other half probably assumed.”

“And you thought it’d be a good idea to go ahead and confirm it?” John takes a step forward. His hands are fists, clenched so tight they’re trembling. “To put it in writing? Where all of the faculty and most of the parents would see? What the hell were you thinking, Alex?”

His voice cracks on Alex’s name, and it cleaves Alex’s chest in two.

“It was a matter of honor,” Alex tells him, his voice barely louder than a whisper in the hopes that it won’t shake. “Of – of standing up to the hate, to make this school safer not just for us, but for the next student that comes along who isn’t straight. So they know they don’t have to hide.”

John just looks at him for a long moment, breathing hard enough through his nose that his nostrils flare with each breath. “That’s real fucking noble, Hamilton. But not all of us go home to the Washington’s at the end of the day. Next time you want to take a stand, maybe consult the person you want by your side. Make sure you’re not putting them in danger for your fucking cause.”

Alex’s mouth goes dry. “I didn’t – your dad wouldn’t – I didn’t think –”

John shakes his head bitterly. “Oh, I know you didn’t fucking think.”

“I’ll retract it,” Alex says, his words pouring out desperately. “I’ll take it back, I’ll print that it was a mistake, I’ll say—”

“You’ve done enough,” John tells him. “Just leave me alone, alright? Leave me out of whatever scheme you’ve got planned next. Let me clean up this mess without making things worse.”

John takes a step back, and Alex physically stops himself from reaching out after him. He can’t keep the words from spilling out, though. “You – you’re not really in danger, are you? Your dad wouldn’t…?”

“He’d never hit me,” John says in a tone that implies what he would do instead is somehow worse. He looks tired, suddenly, his face pale in contrast with his freckles. “So don’t lose any sleep over me, yeah? I won’t lose any over you.”

This time when he walks away, Alex watches him go, hands hanging uselessly at his sides.

-

Angelica gives him a ride home after newspaper, her mouth pressed into a thin line the entire time. Eliza keeps trying to catch his eye in the rearview mirror, but Alex keeps his gaze fixed firmly out the window. He knows Angelica is dying to lay into him about his ability to turn being a dumbass into an artform, but it will take just one more sharp word to puncture the calm façade he’s adopted since John left him standing alone in the parking lot. The Schuyler sisters don’t deserve the fallout if that happens.

Pulling to a stop outside the Washington’s, Angelica lets the engine idle as Alex gathers up his backpack and unfastens his seatbelt.

“Call me, if—” Eliza starts to say, but Angelica cuts her off.

“Do whatever you have to do to make this right, Hamilton. We went out on a limb for you. Don’t forget that.”

Alex bites his tongue as he fumbles with the door handle. “I know,” he says, after choking back the anger-laced retort that tried to escape. He wants to promise that he’ll make this right, but he’s let down enough of his friends today.

Instead he hitches his backpack higher onto his shoulder and slams the door shut behind him, trekking up to the front door without a backwards glance.

Inside, it’s almost eerily quiet. There’s the soft click of the furnace kicking on as Alex toes off his shoes, and the stairs creak with familiarity under his weight as he climbs them. Lafayette must not be home – Alex tries not to linger on the thought that Lafayette’s made plans without him, without telling him; Lafayette doesn’t owe him that, doesn’t owe Alex a thing – because it’s even quieter upstairs, and no one stops him from retreating into his room.

The only thing out of the ordinary is a letter on the floor just inside his door, as if someone’s slipped it through the crack at the bottom of his door.

Panic claws at Alex’s throat until his brain processes the facts: the envelope has one of those clear plastic windows that show the name and address printed on the letter inside, professionally formatted with Alex’s full name. It’s not a letter from Lafayette detailing all the ways that Alex is a bad person, or telling him now that he’s broken John’s trust, Alex can go ahead and find himself a new group of friends.

Shakily, Alex bends down to pick the letter up. Flipping it over, he finds a post-it stuck to the other side with Martha’s neat writing.

_This came in the mail for you today. Hope it’s good news! – M_

Dropping his backpack onto the floor, Alex throws himself over the bed, ripping the envelope open impatiently and pulling out the letter inside. His eyes scan the words three times before it sinks in, and Martha’s post-it finally makes sense.

The letter is from Miranda and Sons, the law firm where Alex applied for a summer internship what feels like a lifetime ago now. _“Dear Mr. Hamilton: Congratulations! You’ve been selected as a final candidate for our prestigious internship program. We review hundreds of applications each year, and are pleased to extend to you an invitation…”_

He’s been offered an interview to secure his spot; to earn the opportunity of a lifetime, the shot he’s been waiting for since he first arrived on US soil with little more than the clothes on his back.

Yesterday, he would have been ecstatic.

Today, he can’t convince himself he even deserves the chance.

-

Martha, of course, wants to know the news once she’s back from running errands. Even George makes it home at a reasonable time, and they’re asking Alex what he wants for dinner to celebrate like he’s already been chosen.

“I still have to go to the interview,” Alex mumbles. “And they probably won’t like me.”

“Nonsense,” Martha says. “Give yourself more credit, Alex. You’re a very likable young man.” She’s poured herself a glass of red wine while she oversees George’s vegetable chopping, as if she’s in any position to give advice in the kitchen. George, for his part, humors her, a fond smile pulling at his normally stern mouth.

How is it possible, Alex wonders, that they’ve been together so long and still so obviously in love with each other? He managed barely two months before crashing and burning.

“Have you told Abigail yet? Or do you want to wait until she comes next week? She’s going to be so happy for you,” Martha beams.

Alex slumps lower in his chair. “Oh, um. Figured I’d just wait,” he says, running his finger along the swirling pattern in the Washington’s granite countertop. Somehow, Martha and George still haven’t heard the rumors from school, and Alex certainly isn’t going to be the one to break the news. They’ll no doubt tell Abigail as soon as they find out, and she’ll probably bring Alex a glossy pamphlet about LGBTQ youth. He almost cringes just thinking about it. The internship will be a convenient subject change to avoid that awkward conversation.

Martha steals a bite or two of green pepper from the cutting board, laughing at the face George makes at her in response.

“Where’s Gilbert?” he asks, moving onto the onion, which he dices with sure, deft movements. “He’s got a nose stronger than a bloodhound’s when it comes to food.”

“Study date with Hercules,” Martha tells him. “Said he’d be home later, but that was before he knew you’d be home to cook.” Turning towards Alex, she adds, “Would you mind texting him, dear, to let him know? Tell him Hercules is welcome too, of course.”

Alex freezes, his brain completely shorting out. Lafayette is hanging out with Herc, and didn’t mention it to Alex? It’s not like he didn’t see this coming, didn’t predict they’d rightfully pick John over him.

He just thought he’d get the chance to try to explain himself first.

There’s no way he can text Laf about dinner plans, using the Washingtons like a pathetic excuse to reach out when it’s obvious Laf wants nothing to do with him. Alex won’t subject himself to that humiliation, but coming up with a plausible reason to get out of it leaves him scrambling.

“I—” he says, panic building.

George looks up from his chopping, the smile dropping off his face when he catches the expression on Alex’s. “You alright, son? If you’re nervous about the interview, you should know that Martha and I are proud of the fact that you’ve even been selected. That alone is an accomplishment to brag about. We don’t mean to make you feel pressured.”

Alex latches onto the excuse George has served up for him. “Yeah, I just – it’s a lot of pressure, I guess. I wasn’t expecting…” he trails off, looking down at his feet, kicking against the rungs of his stool.

“We’ll help you prepare,” George reassures him. “Go through some practice questions until you feel more confident.”

It seems so easy when he says it, like he can speak anything into existence with enough authority that it just happens.

“Sounds great,” Alex lies.

The distraction works, at least. They forget to ask Alex about texting Lafayette again, and assume his preoccupation with the interview is the reason he picks at the dinner George made.

-

Alex goes to his bedroom right after dinner under the pretense of studying, but hides out with the light off, staring at the ceiling. He’s shoved the letter from Miranda and Sons into his backpack along with his books and notebooks; it’s getting so heavy he can feel the strain in his shoulders even now, and he rolls them against the mattress, trying to find relief.

He freezes at the creak of footsteps outside in the hall. They don’t reach his room, and sure enough, Lafayette’s door opens a moment later, the hinges silent but the sound of the door knob turning audible in the quiet house.

Alex strains to listen for the thud of the door shutting behind Lafayette and it comes after nearly a minute. He waits, barely breathing, but the house settles into silence again. There’s no knock on his door, no pushy Lafayette ready to throw himself on Alex’s bed and make him talk about all the things he’s been avoiding.

No sign at all that anyone thinks Alex deserves forgiveness.

Alex rolls over to stare at the wall.

Sleep proves elusive.

-

Alex is too much of a coward – or a pessimist – to wait for Lafayette to publicly choose between him and John. They still ride together to school in the morning, but after a mumbled ‘good morning’ Alex cracks a wide yawn that’s not entirely faked and curls against the passenger door, giving Laf an easy out to avoid conversation.

He uses their silent commute to come up with a long list of excuses to avoid Laf and the boys at school, everything from “catching up on homework” to “preparing for the internship interview” and “finishing up that article for the paper” or even “working on extra credit for that one class – you know I didn’t do so great on that last test, I really have to buckle down if I want to bring my grades back up.”

In reality, he checks out a paperback from the library and rereads the same page 4-5 times before the words sink in, or sometimes just stares at the page until the words go out of focus and the bell for class jars him back to reality.

After the first day, Lafayette stops questioning him. Alex pretends that’s what he wanted, anyway.

During lunch, it’s finally nice enough to go outside. Alex hangs around the bleachers, letting his hair hang lose to block his face as he hunches over a notebook, writing letters he’ll never send. He crosses out sentence after sentence, trying to rewrite them until he gets it right.

He never gets it right.

Jefferson finds him on day three of his self-imposed exile, his shiny shoes the first thing to enter Alex’s line of sight. When they don’t move, Alex slowly raises his head, eyes dragging up Jefferson’s tight khakis and pristinely pressed blazer until they reach his face.

Alex tucks his hair behind one ear as if that will fix his comparatively disheveled appearance.

“Can I help you?” he asks after a few seconds of Jefferson’s judgmental staring.

“I certainly hope not,” Jefferson says. He’s alone today without his shadow. Alex didn’t know he went anywhere without Madison.

“Great, then can you move? You’re blocking my sun.”

“You do look a little pale. Have you been sleeping okay?” If the question is a sincere one, the slight mockery in Jefferson’s tone belies it.

Dropping his focus back to his notebook, Alex says in a tired voice, “Fuck off, man. I’m really not in the mood.”

“See, that’s your whole problem,” Jefferson volunteers, as if Alex asked. “You’re always so hostile, even when someone is trying to extend an olive branch.”

That gets Alex’s attention, his eyes snapping up again. “I’m sorry, what part of ‘you look like shit’ was supposed to be an olive branch?”

“That’s not what I said and you know it,” Jefferson huffs.

Alex shakes his head. “If you had a point when you started this conversation, I’d suggest you make it.”

“I was _going_ to tell you that what you did with the paper was brave, but stupid, but now I’m starting to think it was entirely stupid. You don’t have an ounce of self-preservation in your entire body, do you?”

Staring at Jefferson in disbelief, Alex asks, “Are you kidding me, dude? Assholes like you are the reason I had to write that piece in the first place.”

Jefferson doesn’t display one ounce of regret. Waving his hand dismissively, he says, “I told you, we were just joking that one day. I don’t know why you take everything so _personally._ It’s like you go around asking to be disappointed.”

Alex has so many retorts to that stupidity that they get jammed together behind his teeth and it takes him a moment to untangle a response. “Is that also a joke? Your sense of humor leaves something to be desired.”

Shaking his head, Jefferson brushes an invisible piece of lint from his shoulder. “You’ll never get ahead if you’re always playing from behind, Hamilton.”

Alex bares his teeth. “I’m just trying to get even.”

-

The conversation with Jefferson leaves a sour taste in Alex’s mouth, but the worst part is that it’s the longest conversation he’s had with anyone in days.

He’s started and deleted more texts to John than he can count, torn between wanting to respect John’s space and begging for forgiveness, for acknowledgement, anything. In 7th period, he’s resumed taking his usual desk in the back, while John seems to have permanently moved to the front. Alex spends the entire class period alternating staring at the back of John’s head and his notebook, and retaining zero knowledge. He thinks they might have a test coming up, but he can’t be sure. Bombing it seems like the least of his problems right now.

After school, he’s still thinking about Jefferson’s stupid words. What was the point of taking a stand, of speaking his mind, if half the people his message was intended for don’t even realize it?

After Angelica and Eliza drop him off at home, he kicks off his shoes on autopilot just inside the door, heading immediately upstairs to his room. He’s so distracted by his thoughts that he literally runs into Lafayette on the stairs and grabs the bannister to keep from falling down them.

“Shit, sorry, I was – sorry,” he stammers, still clinging to the bannister.

Lafayette has one steadying hand on Alex’s shoulder. It hits Alex in that moment that it’s the most he’s been touched in days, and it’s all he can do not to lean into it, to ask for more. Before he came to the Washingtons, he was used to a lack of physical contact. Usually it came in the form of violence: knuckles hitting skin, a chokehold around his neck, hot breath against his face mixed up with the pounding adrenaline of a fight.

He’s been spoiled here. Ruined by gentle touches, by tender gestures. How could he let himself get so complacent?

He takes a step backwards, feeling out the edge of the step with his socked foot. Lafayette’s hand falls from his shoulder. His expression is unreadable.

“No worries, mon ami,” he says, eyes never leaving Alex’s face. “You are the one wanting space, non?”

The bannister under Alex’s finger is smooth, polished. He could run his hand over it a thousand times, and never worry about a splinter piercing his skin. What’s it like, trusting the foundation under you to hold strong? To never let you down?

“I thought,” Alex says slowly. “I mean, John – is he, um.”

“Is he what?” Lafayette prompts. Unlike Jefferson, Alex can’t detect anything mocking or insincere in his tone.

“Is he okay?” Alex asks in a small voice. It’s not quite what he meant to ask, but it’s the only thing he wants to know.

Lafayette seems to consider his words carefully before responding. “I’m not sure I can answer that,” he says at last.

Alex’s fingers tighten on the bannister. “I just – you know I didn’t mean it, right? That I would undo it if I could, I swear I would.”

A wrinkle forms between Lafayette’s brows. “You didn’t mean it?”

Backpedaling, Alex stumbles over his words, “No, I mean, I meant it, I just – _fuck_.” He shoves his hand through his hair, and his fingers catch on snarls. “I didn’t mean to hurt John. I stand by every word, except for that last sentence.”

“Then why did you print it?”

Lafayette’s question hangs in the air between them.

_Because I was sick of hiding. Because it would’ve been easier if it were Eliza, and that’s not fair. Because words are more effective if you back them up with direct action. Because I was already outed, and it was the only way to take back power from everyone trying to put me down._

_Because I wanted to kiss John in public. To hold his hand, to get to call him my boyfriend._

“Maybe I was… being selfish,” Alex allows.

Lafayette frowns. “Are you—”

Alex is either going to throw up or cry, and he does not want Lafayette to witness either one. Pushing past him on the stairs, Alex mumbles something about not feeling well and flees to the bathroom. He turns the shower on as hot as he can stand it, and stands under the spray until it goes cold.

Shivering as he finally turns the water off, he retreats to his room, throwing on whatever’s closest. He climbs under the covers, his fingers still clumsy with cold.

No one knocks on his door; not even George or Martha to remind him of dinner. Alex pulls the covers up to his chin, breathing in the faded scent of detergent.

-

There’s no newspaper after school on Friday, and Alex has accepted enough of the Schuyler’s charity this week. He can take the bus home, or maybe to the public library, or – he’s got a bit of money in his wallet, enough to get a coffee or a tea. Maybe he can spend the evening sitting at a coffee shop, pretending to be someone who’s life isn’t falling down around his ears.

Or maybe he can find a fight to pick, buy himself a one-way ticket back to juvie. Put this whole charade to rest. He gave it his best shot, but it’s become clear that he’s done nothing to earn this opportunity.

It’s just his luck that his clean break is denied by none other than Aaron fucking Burr.

“Hey,” Burr calls after him. “Alex, wait!”

Alex pretends not to hear him, even though he’s avoided the main hallway so that he doesn’t have to watch John walk away again, and the side door’s not nearly as crowded.

“ _Alexander_ ,” Burr calls again, and this time Alex stops in annoyance, hitching his overstuffed backpack up higher on his shoulder.

“What,” he says flatly, not even bothering with inflection to make it a question.

“You dropped…” Burr trails off, and Alex turns around.

“What?” he says again, but Burr’s staring at the envelope in his hands.

“This is from Miranda and Sons law firm,” Burr says slowly.

Alex gives him a look. “Congrats on the sleuthing skills, dude. You’ve got a real future in law enforcement.”

Burr raises his eyes in slow motion. “You didn’t apply for the summer internship at Miranda and Sons.”

“Actually, I did,” Alex says, snatching the letter out of Burr’s hands with exasperation and trying to stuff it back into his backpack. The zipper’s come undone on one side; no wonder it fell out. There’s too much shit in the way to fit it back inside, and Alex growls in frustration, “I’ll probably bomb the interview, but hey, what’s another failure at this point, you know?”

Burr doesn’t laugh, but then, Alex’s joke wasn’t really funny. “You – _you_ got selected for an interview?”

Gesturing with the now crumpled letter, Alex confirms bitterly, “Yep, sure did. Apparently it’s _quite_ prestigious, but I guess immigrant foster kids can somehow make the cut.”

The look on Burr’s face is hard to decipher, but only because Alex doesn’t care. “Anyway, thanks, I guess? See you around, Burr.”

“You,” Burr says, and his voice sounds funny. Strangled, almost. “ _You_ got selected for an interview for the Miranda internship, and you think it’s a fucking joke?”

Alex has never heard so much venom in Burr’s voice. Has never heard any venom in Burr’s voice, for that matter. He takes another look at Burr’s face, and suddenly his expression is crystal clear. It’s the pure, purposeful rage of a man with his back against the wall who has settled the age-old question between flight and fight with the obvious choice.

Alex’s veins thrum with sudden adrenaline. His mind feels hyper-focused as all of his energy is poured into assessing Burr: the breadth of his shoulders, the way his knuckles pop as his fingers curl into his palms, his unflinching stare.

A fight has fallen right into his lap, and he has no intention of letting it get away.

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?” Alex asks. The flare of Burr’s nostrils tells him he’s hit his mark, that he guessed right, and Alex goes for the kill. Edging closer to Burr, he continues, “Don’t tell me you applied, too. I’m going to have some real competition for the interview portion. Oh, but – you did get selected for an interview too, didn’t you?”

“You’re playing with fire, Hamilton,” Burr warns him, his voice nearly a growl.

“Oh, I’m pouring gasoline on it,” Alex promises him. Holding up the letter – still crinkled in his grip, which makes Burr lurch forward before he can pull himself up short – Alex says, “Tell me how it feels, knowing a fuck up like me got picked, when someone with your pedigree, your ambition, your spotless credentials, got… looked over.”

Burr’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I hope you’re looking for a fight, Hamilton, because you’re going to get it if you don’t watch your mouth.”

Alex racks his brain, trying to find the button that will push Burr over the edge. “You’re just waiting for an excuse, aren’t you? Since I got here, you’ve been trying to help me, trying to mold me into someone like you, someone cautious, who waits for their chance – but guess what, Burr?” He pauses, making sure that Burr is hanging on his every word. “I didn’t wait. I fucking took it, and you lost.”

Burr’s fist hits Alex’s cheek hard enough to snap his head back, but if Burr thought a single punch could drop him, he picked the wrong bastard orphan to fight. Alex gives as good as he gets, peppering Burr’s ribs and vulnerable stomach with punches. What Burr lacks in experience, he makes up for in brute strength, and while he only lands one punch for three of Alex’s, he makes each one count.

It’s hard to say who would’ve won, because it takes less than a minute for one of the students to sound the alarm, and then someone’s holding Alex back, even as he’s still taking swings.

“Fuck you,” he spits at Burr. His lip is cracked; he tastes blood. His vision’s a little blurry, but closing one of his eyes momentarily solves that problem.

Burr doesn’t say anything, just lets himself be hustled off down the hall. Alex slumps, the arms around him the only thing holding him up. In the distance, he hears sirens.

The only rational thought in his head is that he wishes he could see John one last time before they take him back to the detention center.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _J –_
> 
> _~~I am so fucking sorry I can’t even say~~ _
> 
> _~~I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but~~ _
> 
> _~~Please know that it was never my intention to hurt you, and I~~ _
> 
> _~~You told me your dad was shitty and I should’ve believed you. The truth is that I wasn’t even thinking~~ _
> 
> _~~Being outed was one of the worst things that happened to me, and I didn’t fully realize that I was doing the same thing to you. That’s no excuse, but~~ _
> 
> _~~Tell me what I can do to make this right. I’ll do anything. Anything.~~ _
> 
> _I meant it when I said I can’t do this without you._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should add that this story WILL have a happy ending. eventually. we're gonna get there, i totally promise. the only place to go from rock bottom is up, right?
> 
> anyway, thank you as always for the comments/kudos. it's more appreciated than you know. you can also come say hi on [tumblr](https://finestfaceoncurrency.tumblr.com/) or check out some behind the scenes things there. okay cool.


	11. eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> every action has an equal opposite reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for some descriptions of injuries, real bad coping skills, and mental health stuff

To say that Alex is surprised to find himself shuffled into the back of an ambulance rather than a squad car is an understatement.

“I’m fine,” he insists to the paramedic, squirming away as she tries to wrap a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“Hon, I’m gonna need you to sit still for me, alright? This won’t hurt a bit, I promise,” she tells him in a tone that invites no argument.

Alex begrudgingly lets her take his arm, tensing as the cuff inflates, squeezing too tight. With his good eye, he looks around the ambulance, but fails to take in any noticeable details. Adrenaline is still coursing through his veins, though there are some familiar aches already that let him know the pain is going to hit him swift and hard as soon as it fades. He gently prods at his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, tasting blood. His knuckles are starting to bruise, the right one split in the exact same spot after his fight with Samuel all those months ago. There’s a finger on his left hand he can’t bend, though it doesn’t stop him from trying. It’s swollen to twice its normal size, and Alex pokes it with morbid fascinating, hissing when pain blooms, bright and sharp.

“I’m fucked, aren’t I?” he asks aloud, not really expecting an answer.

“I’ve seen worse,” the paramedic says reassuringly, unaware she’s answered the wrong question. She’s older, 40s maybe, with the same matronly vibe Martha gives off, but with deeper lines around her mouth and creasing the corners of her eyes. Alex wonders if they’re from stress or laughter, or maybe a delinquent son who keeps her up worrying at night.

What would his own mother say, if she could see him now?

“Hey, you got any painkillers?” he asks. The way his vision still hasn’t cleared entirely tells him a concussion is a definite possibility, and he wouldn’t turn down the warm, fuzzy embrace of prescription drugs.

The paramedic makes him look forward, shines a too bright penlight in his eyes. “You can have some Tylenol,” she offers.

Alex tries to give her puppy dog eyes, but they’re still watering from the penlight and he mostly just ends up blinking a lot. “You don’t have anything harder?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “We’re almost to the hospital.”

-

They don’t give him anything harder at the hospital either, but he does have to sit through a CT scan and another set of x-rays on his left hand. He gets seven stitches for a cut along his eyebrow, and an ice pack for his split lip.

The Tylenol he finally accepts only takes the edge off his pain, and his face and hands in particular throb with each heartbeat. Burr also landed a few blows to his ribs, but those bruises only hurt if he presses his fingertips into them.

He tests that theory a few times, just to be sure.

He’s still sipping water from the little paper cup they gave him, wondering which nurse is the best to start angling for dinner for his growling stomach, when someone shoves open the curtain that offers a modicum of privacy for the little bay his bed is tucked away in.

“Here he is,” one of the nurses says, and Alex chokes on his water when Martha rushes in, George following her at a more sedate pace.

“Alex!” The concern in Martha’s voice makes Alex sit up straight. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alex says, choosing to answer the easier question. George looks pointedly at his various cuts and bruises, including his splinted finger. “I’ll be fine,” Alex quickly amends.

George doesn’t seem impressed. “Principal Franklin informed us you were involved in a brawl.”

“Well it really – I don’t think it’s considered a brawl if it’s only two people,” Alex points out to George’s chin, as it’s entirely too difficult to meet his eye.

“I’m not asking for a vocabulary lesson, son.”

He hasn’t actually asked a question at all, but for once Alex wisely keeps his mouth shut. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles instead, grip tightening on his paper cup until it crumples.

Giving George a sharp look, Martha perches on the edge of Alex’s narrow bed and rests her hand on his leg just below the knee, her palm warm through the thin hospital blanket. “Alex, the school told us you’ve also been involved in…” she trails off, lips pursing for a moment. For the first time, Alex notices the thin lines bracketing her mouth, barely visible even in the bright florescent lighting.

Martha’s fingers squeeze gently. “I want you to know, Alex, that it’s okay to be gay, or bisexual, or however you identify, okay? If George or I had known, we would have – what I mean to say is that we’re sorry, for making you feel like you had to hide that part of yourself.”

There’s a sudden lump in Alex’s throat. God, everything hurts, and the stupid Tylenol is doing nothing.

“It’s fine,” Alex says hoarsely. If he keeps saying it, eventually it will have to be true.

The nurse pops her head back in the bay. “Excuse me, but there’s an officer here to take a statement?”

Alex pulverizes the paper cup, his fist tight enough that his split knuckle oozes fresh blood. This hospital trip has been a lovely little vacation, but he was honestly surprised they hadn’t slapped a pair of cuffs on him and shackled him to the bed. Someone must’ve noticed this oversight and sent a cop to correct it.

The nurse ducks back out, letting the cop slip past the half-open curtain. He’s broad-shouldered, and though George has a few inches on him, he makes the space feel suddenly crowded.

“Mr. Hamilton? I have just a few questions for you,” he says, flipping open a little notebook. Eyes flicking towards George and Martha, he adds, “It’s not necessary for you to stay.”

George shifts slightly, squaring his shoulders and suddenly taking command of the room. “That’s quite alright, officer.” Offering the cop a large hand, he continues, “I’m Senator George Washington, and this is my wife, Martha. We’re Mr. Hamilton’s guardians, and we’d like to be present while you take his statement.”

For a moment, the air seems suddenly charged, like a single spark could ignite it. Alex doesn’t breathe. Then the cop takes George’s hand in a firm handshake, and the tension breaks, just like that. “Of course, Senator.” Turning back to Alex, he asks, “Can you give me a brief summary of what happened?”

Alex recounts the facts with prompting from the officer, looking mostly at the twin, knobby bumps his knees make under the thin hospital blanket as he talks. Yes, Burr struck first. Yes, Alex hit back. Sure, it could’ve been self-defense. Yes, all the injuries he sustained were a result of the fight. No, it wasn’t –

“A hate crime?” Alex looks up for the first time.

“Witnesses say you’ve been the victim of ongoing bullying regarding your… sexual orientation,” the cop says.

Alex shakes his head, then immediately regrets it. Pressing one hand to his temple as he fights a wave of dizziness, Alex tells the cop, “No, no, Burr didn’t – we were arguing about something else.” Swallowing painfully, he adds, “We were arguing about an internship. Burr was upset that he wasn’t selected, and I – I was antagonizing him about it.”

No force in the world is strong enough to make him look over at George and Martha and see the judgment and disappointment on their faces. He answers a few more questions, and then the cop is thanking him for his time, packing his little notebook away.

Alex’s mouth is open and blurting out the stupidest sentence he’s ever said before his brain can catch up. “Wait – you’re not arresting me?”

The cop’s eyebrows crease in confusion. “No, son. Mr. Burr’s account of the events matches yours, and several witnesses also corroborate the fact that he was the perpetrator. If you’ve changed your mind about wanting to press charges, we can—”

“No, no, I don’t want to press charges. I just thought—” His brain finally catches up, and he snaps his jaw shut.

“Mr. Burr will likely be receiving a citation, but the school administration has expressed they’d like to handle the incident in-house.” Handing George a business card, the cop continues, “Don’t hesitate to give us a call if Mr. Hamilton changes his mind, or wants to add anything to his statement. You folks have a nice night now, alright?”

“You too, officer,” Martha says, while Alex’s head spins.

-

He’s released from the hospital about an hour later, after his CT results come back. A minor concussion, but no need for further observation unless his symptoms persist.

Alex climbs in the back of the Washington’s black SUV silently, buckling his seatbelt and turning his face towards the window. He can’t help himself from running his finger gently along the stitches in his forehead, feeling the jagged edges and tender skin, even though it hurts.

“You shouldn’t touch those, dear,” Martha tells him, and Alex jerks his hand away. He didn’t know she was watching him. “They could get infected. Best to let them be.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, dropping his hands to his lap. He keeps them there the rest of the ride home, and misses the look George and Martha exchange in the front seat.

When they pull into the garage at last, George says, “Go on up to your room. Martha and I have some things to discuss before we talk with you.”

The finality of George’s voice tells Alex everything he needs to know. He makes his slow walk of shame into the house and up the stairs, passing Lafayette’s closed door. There’s no light in the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor, no thumping bassline or creaking floorboards to indicate Laf is home. Makes sense, Alex thinks to himself. They wouldn’t want Laf here to witness this part. He wonders if they’ll let him say goodbye.

In his own room, Alex pauses in the doorway to take stock. There are clothes bursting out of his dresser, spilling onto the floor, and the rest hanging haphazardly from hangers in his closet. He’s got more shoes than he can remember owning his life – a couple of nice pairs for school, black _and_ brown dress shoes, the sneakers Martha insisted on buying him after he got one of his nice school pairs scuffed, another more casual pair on top of the rest – and packing those alone seems like a daunting task.

Then there’s the books and notebooks, and the secondhand laptop because he flat out refused to let the Washingtons buy him a new one, but that became a need to keep up with his school work. His desk and bedside table are both overflowing with clutter; surfaces piled with copies of the school paper, notes from John, handwritten drafts of articles he’s still working on, an empty metal syrup cup John stole from Waffle Shack and presented to Alex as a gift, and an embarrassing picture of Lafayette that Herc procured for him, framed and all.

Alex has built more of a life here in four months than he has anywhere else in the last four years. He doesn’t know how he’s going to fit everything into garbage bags and boxes, if Abigail’s trunk is big enough to contain it all.

Maybe it’s a sign that he needs to start culling things now; discarding everything sentimental, everything impractical. Why does Alex need two pairs of dress shoes, when he won’t have a reason to wear even one with the trajectory his life is on?

Emotion swells in his chest, something hot and tangled and ugly, and Alex shoves it down deep. With trembling hands, he tears open his dresser drawer by drawer, dumping all his clothes onto his bed in one big pile so it’ll be easier to shove into a garbage bag. He moves onto his closet next, tearing clothes off the hangers and throwing them on top of the growing heap. He leaves the Lake Forest blue blazers hanging. He won’t have any need for those once he’s back in the group home.

The only thing that gives him pause is a dark sweatshirt, shoved way in the back. Alex’s fingers close around the fabric, bring it close to his nose.

Maybe he’s imagining it, but he swears it still smells like John.

He allows himself a single, humiliating moment of weakness to pull the sweatshirt over his head, careful of his splinted finger and stitches. John hasn’t asked for it back; he’s probably forgotten Alex still has it. Alex has seen his closet – it’s twice as full as Alex’s. John won’t miss it.

Alex will wear it until the seams unravel.

He moves onto the desk next, starting three piles – necessity, luxury, and undecided – when there’s a gentle knock on the door.

“Yeah? Come in,” he calls, worrying his split lip as he debates putting the framed picture of Lafayette in the luxury or undecided pile. He settles on the undecided pile to put off the decision even longer when Martha and George step into the room.

“What the hell is going on in here?” George asks in his booming voice.

Alex flinches. “I – I just wanted to get a head start on packing?” He can’t get a read on either of their expressions, and it makes him nervous.

When Martha speaks, her voice sounds odd. “Why are you packing?”

“Well, I—” Alex rubs a hand over the back of his neck, trying to figure out the trick part of Martha’s question. “I know it’s Saturday tomorrow, but if Abigail can’t come, they always have someone on weekends. It’s easier if you’re packed up ahead of time.”

Realization blooms on Martha’s face first, but George is only a second behind her. “Do you think we’re going to call Abigail to come get you because another boy attacked you?”

“Burr didn’t _attack_ me,” Alex argues, suddenly angry again. “I picked that fight. I goaded him into hitting me so I could hit him back.” He gestures to his bruised and battered face. “This was my fault. Everything is my fault. I should be in a police station right now. I don’t get why I’m still _here_.”

George says in an even, measured tone, “Alex, if you don’t want to be here anymore, you don’t need put yourself in dangerous situations. You can be honest with us. There will be no hard feelings, okay? We just want you to feel safe.”

“That’s not – you don’t _get it_.” Alex’s hands ball into fists automatically, and he swears under his breath when he forgets about his broken finger. His eyes burn with unshed tears. God, why did they give him nothing harder than Tylenol? It hurts, it all hurts so much.

Martha takes a cautious step forward, then another, until she can nudge aside the pile of clothes and sit on the edge of Alex’s bed, putting herself closer to his eye level. “Can you explain it to us? We’re listening, Alex, I promise you we’re listening. Help us understand.”

The words scrape his throat raw, but he gets them out after only a couple tries. “It’s not that I don’t want to be here. Of course I want to be here. It’s that I don’t _deserve_ to be.”

Softly, Martha asks, “Why do you say that?”

Alex doesn’t trust his knees to hold him up, and shuffles back a step to lean against the desk. He doesn’t know how to explain it to the Washingtons, doesn’t understand why it’s not obvious to them. “I – I tried so hard,” he starts, haltingly. “You gotta believe me, I tried so hard, but I – all I do is mess up, and hurt people. I did something… something unforgivable to John. He was the most important person and I – it’s like I ruin anything good that happens to me. Ever since –” he squeezes his eyes shut, and has to take a few deep breaths before he can keep going.

“I tried so hard,” he says again, barely louder than a whisper. He’s beyond choosing his words with care. They bubble out from somewhere deep inside, flooding his mouth and spilling over his teeth, an uncontrollable torrent. “I wanted it so bad. But ever since my m—ever since I came to America, I can never get it right. I just keep messing up, and no one wants to put up with me. Why should they? You know there’s one common denominator in every place I’ve been? It’s me. _I’m_ the problem. I thought it would be different this time, but I was wrong.” He sniffles, wiping at his nose. It’s only then that he realizes his cheeks are wet with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, trying to scrub them away with the sleeves of John’s sweatshirt. He can never give it back now, not with it covered in snot and tears. “I shouldn’t have ever come here and wasted all your time.”

At first, he doesn’t understand the pressure on his shoulders, doesn’t register the arms enveloping him other than a sudden warmth.

“You didn’t, you could never waste our time,” Martha is murmuring in his ear, and it’s her arms around him, hugging him close, holding him fiercely. “You’re strong, and you’re smart, and every single person who gave up on you was too blind to see that. You deserve nothing but love, Alex, do you hear me? You deserve all the love in the world.”

The words wash over him, gentle as the pull of the tide, but Martha’s arms anchor him. They don’t let him go. Don’t let him get swept away. “Your mama would be so proud of you, to see how hard you’ve fought. I’m proud of you, and I’ve only known you for such a short time.”

Alex chokes on a sob, pressing his face into Martha’s neck and clinging to her like a child. “I m-miss her so much.”

“I know you do, sweetheart, I know.” Martha shushes him, murmurs more kind, soft words, pets his hair until the sobs eventually die down into sniffles.

George is gone by the time Alex pulls back from Martha’s embrace, though he doesn’t remember hearing the door open. Martha smooths his hair back again, fusses over his collar. He can’t help leaning into her touch, even as it makes his throat tight and more embarrassing tears prick his already swollen eyes.

Martha grabs the box of tissues from his bedside table and hands it to him, grabbing a few tissues for herself while he loudly blows his nose.

“Okay, first order of business,” she announces once he’s slightly less snotty, though still arguably a complete mess. “We’re going to let Abigail know what happened today, but we are not, under any circumstances, asking her to remove you from our care, okay?”

“Okay,” Alex echoes weakly. He feels rung out, like every bit of emotion he’s buried has been dug out and laid bare, leaving him nothing but hollowed bones.

“Good. Now, I think we have a lot more to talk about, but it’s been a long night already. Let’s get some food in you and then let you get some sleep after we check on your concussion. We’ll talk more in the morning. Does that sound okay?” Martha’s watching him carefully, but all Alex can do is nod with exhaustion.

“Yeah, that sounds okay.”

-

Alex wakes up with sore, puffy eyes and his entire body aching. When he cautiously cracks open his bedroom door, no one is lying in wait for him, but the enticing smell of coffee drifts up the stairs.

Grabbing a towel from the linen closet, Alex darts across the hall to the bathroom, buying himself time with a hot shower. He’s careful to keep his stitches out of the direct spray, but lets the water pound against his sore shoulders until some of the tension drains from them. There are a few bruises covering his ribs, a gruesome rainbow of purples and greens ringed with sickly yellow. He presses his finger against one of them until his skin turns white, the pain sharp as the point of a knife.

The mirror is fogged up by the time he gets out and he smears his hand across it, revealing a distorted reflection still streaked with condensation. It’s enough to see the dark bruise ringing one of his eyes below the ragged row of stitches in his eyebrow. Alex drops his gaze and focuses his attention on brushing his teeth, careful of his fat lip.

Back in his room, he pulls on whatever clothes are nearest. He picks up John’s sweatshirt, the cuffs a little crusty with dried snot, and hesitates for only a second before pulling it over his head anyway.

Who is he trying to impress? The Washingtons have seen him at his worst now. If they decide to throw in the towel over a dirty sweatshirt, then he wasn’t destined to make it to 18 here anyway.

He finds his phone on the floor next to his bed, though he doesn’t remember dropping it yesterday. The battery is dead, and when he plugs it in, it starts to ping and vibrate with texts and missed calls.

It occurs to Alex for the first time that news of the fight has probably made it around the entire school. The thought is paralyzing, and Alex finally decides it’s time to stop avoiding George and Martha. They might be preferable company to his own head at this point.

Downstairs, Alex follows his nose into the kitchen, where something is sizzling on the stove. George doesn’t acknowledge him, but does reach for the open carton of eggs on the counter and cracks open two more, adding them to the pan.

“Good morning, Alex,” Martha says, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug as she sits at the table. “How’d you sleep?”

“Alright,” Alex says, pouring himself a cup of coffee and adding creamer until it’s a light tan color.

“Do you want any bacon with your eggs?” George asks from the stove.

Alex takes a sip from his mug, ignoring how it nearly burns his tongue. “Just toast, if that’s okay.” There’s no way his stomach can handle the grease this morning. It’s already churning in a way that tells him it’s going to be a challenge keeping the coffee down.

Breakfast is an awkward affair, though Martha makes a valiant attempt to draw both Alex and George into conversation. When the only thing left on Alex’s plate is his crust and a few bites of egg he can’t force down, he finally asks, “Is Laf home?”

“No,” Martha says after a short pause. “He has plans for the day.”

Alex’s stomach twists. Maybe they’ve changed their minds. Maybe they are going to send him packing.

“What’s on your mind, Alex?” George asks when nobody says anything to fill the sudden silence.

Pushing the remaining egg on his plate around with his fork, Alex mumbles, “Nothing.”

The weight of George’s gaze on him is heavy, and Alex’s shoulders wilt under it. George says, not unkindly, “Before last night, we might’ve let you off the hook with that answer.”

Slouching further in his seat, Alex keeps his eyes on his plate. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Why don’t we start with having you listen?” Martha offers. “George and I have spoken at length, and we’ve realized that we’ve let you down.”

Alex jerks his chin up. “Wait. What? No, that’s not--”

Holding up her hand, Martha gently interrupts, “Please, Alex. I really need you to hear me now, okay?” She looks at him for a long moment, her kind brown eyes pinning him in place. “I’m sorry,” she says. “ _We’re_ sorry. When you came here, you were so independent, so intelligent and driven, that George and I missed all the signs that you needed more from us. We’ve let you hold us at a distance because we thought that was what you wanted. It was so different with Gilbert – he was so much younger than you when we got him in our care, it was easy to tell when he was acting out that all he needed was love; he just didn’t know how to ask for it.”

Humiliation spikes hotly through Alex. “I know how to ask for things.” Has he not added stuff to the grocery list pinned on the fridge?

Martha presses his lips together, considering. “Maybe I’m not explaining this well enough. What about – okay, when you were little, and you had a bad day, you didn’t have to ask your mom for a hug, did you? I bet she could just tell when you needed one.”

Alex nods reluctantly, pulling his sleeves up over his hands and crossing his arms over his chest.

“But with George and I – oh, the other night, for example. We could tell something was bothering you, but we didn’t push it when you said it was just nerves about the interview for the internship. That wasn’t what you needed from us that night, was it?”

Hunching his shoulders, Alex says uncomfortably, “Well, I wasn’t really looking for a hug.”

“It would’ve been okay if you were,” George interjects. “But the point Martha is trying to make is that you had something on your mind that was bothering you, and we didn’t listen. Not the way you needed us to.”

Alex fiddles with one of the cords hanging from John’s sweatshirt. “You guys aren’t supposed to be, like, mind readers.”

George’s mouth curves into the smallest of smiles. “No, you’re right about that. It’s certainly a two-way street.”

“Okay,” Alex says, looping and unlooping the cord around his fingers. “Next time something’s bothering me, I’ll let you know.”

“We appreciate that, and I can tell this conversation is making you uncomfortable, but Alex…” Martha trails off. Alex tenses, bracing for the worst. “Sweetheart, you got into a fight, got yourself seriously hurt, without letting anyone know how much you were hurting in here.” She places her hand on her chest, over her heart.

“The fight was stupid,” Alex says quickly. The cord’s so tight around his fingers they’re turning white, and he unloops it again, letting the blood flow. “I take full responsibility. I shouldn’t have baited Burr like that.”

“I’m glad you recognize that, but son—Alex,” George corrects himself. “You understand that before we took you into our care, Abigail shared your file with us. We can’t imagine everything you’ve been through, with your mother and the hurricane, and how many places you’ve been bounced around since you’ve been in the U.S.—”

“I don’t,” Alex swallows thickly. The eggs have settled uneasily in his stomach. “I don’t,” he starts again, “get nightmares about the hurricane anymore. Not really bad ones, anyway. We don’t have to talk about any of that.”

George and Martha exchange a glance. Turning back to Alex, Martha says, as gently as she can, “But you can’t keep things bottled up inside until you explode, either. That solution isn’t working.”

Alex considers his bruised and battered knuckles. Martha may have a point. “So what are you saying, exactly?”

“We want you to talk to us, to let us know when something is wrong. And we’re going to do better at being nosy, at pushing you to talk when we see the signs.” Martha takes a deep breath, and Alex guesses what’s coming next. “But we also think you might benefit from talking with a therapist.”

“I’ve done that already,” Alex tells them, ready for this argument. “They taught me some coping skills, or whatever. I just forget to use them, but I can try harder. I don’t think there’s much point in going again. It’d just be a repeat.”

George raises one eyebrow. “Therapy isn’t a one-time vaccine that lasts a lifetime.”

“Okay, but—”

“Just think about it?” Martha asks, cutting him off before he can pick up steam. “We’re not going to make you, if you truly don’t want to. But it might really help.”

“I’ll think about it,” Alex agrees, but only so he can make his escape from this conversation.

-

There’s still a mound of clothes on the foot of his bed, though some have fallen onto the floor, and the thought of putting them away is so overwhelming that Alex retreats to the basement instead. He’s still sore, and his concussion makes looking at a TV screen for any extended period hurt his eyes, so he ends up half asleep on the couch while reruns of _Law and Order: SVU_ play quietly in the background.

That’s where Laf finds him late afternoon, hovering at the far end of the couch with worried eyes.

“Oh, Alex,” he says when Alex cracks an eyelid open. “ _Mon cher_ , what happened?”

Alex pushes himself up into a sitting position, his ribs protesting the movement. He winces. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard. I’m sure the whole school knows by now.”

Circling around the couch, Lafayette comes to sit next to Alex. He hesitates a moment, biting his lip. “I feel like you need a hug, but I don’t know what parts of you don’t hurt.”

Alex closes his eyes. He will not cry in front of Lafayette. He won’t. “I’m okay,” he says, his voice barely even shaking.

Lafayette makes a noise of protest. “You are not okay! Alex, why do you keep pretending everything is fine when it’s not?”

“I—” Alex falters, words failing him.

Reaching out, Lafayette wraps his fingers loosely around Alex’s wrist, pulling his hand closer to inspect his scabbed knuckles. He’s gentle, careful not to touch the tender, bruised skin, but he doesn’t let Alex pull away, either. “Every time I think I am past one of your walls, I find another. You keep everyone at a distance. Do you know what I think?”

“I should go into construction?” Alex guesses.

“Ha! You joke. Another wall. It won’t work, mon ami. There is only one reason to build so many walls.”

“And what reason is that?” Laf still hasn’t dropped his hand, as if he thinks a physical connection will chip away at Alex’s defenses.

Tapping a finger against Alex’s chest, Lafayette tells him, “You are protecting something in here. Something vulnerable. There is no shame in that.”

Alex rolls his eyes in exaggeration. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

Lafayette laughs. “You think you can keep building walls! I am telling you, it won’t work. I am going to knock them all down.”

The words slip out before Alex can stop them. “Yesterday you wanted nothing to do with me, and now you wanna know my tragic backstory because I got a couple stitches?”

Confusion crosses Lafayette’s face. “What are you talking about? You were the one avoiding me!”

Alex stares at him. “Uh, ‘cause you guys didn’t want me around? I don’t know if you noticed that I fucked everything up with John, but I thought it was pretty obvious everyone was on his side.”

The confusion on Laf’s face melts into something like hurt. “Alex, you are my brother. I would never turn my back on you.”

“But – that day, on the stairs, you – you _interrogated_ me, and I—”

“Interrogated! Mon Dieu. Alex, you and John wouldn’t _talk_ to me or Herc about what happened. I am not a mind reader! You ran off before we could finish our conversation, before I could get enough information from you to try to talk to John about it, too.”

Alex’s heart is pounding. “John hasn’t been talking to you?”

Lafayette releases a heavy sigh. “Let’s say you are not the only one skilled at building walls, non? I know things have not been easy with his father, but not much more than that.”

Alex feels sick. “I really thought – fuck, Laf, I never meant to hurt him, for his dad to – everyone already assumed it was him in the picture, everyone who knew us, anyway, and I thought – _fuck_.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Lafayette squeezes Alex’s shoulder. “Breathe, mon ami, breathe. It’s okay. Tell me again, why you did it. Tell me the truth.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Alex lets it out shakily. “That day that we went to play basketball at the park, and I realized I would never be able to kiss John in public. That we’d have to hide our relationship indefinitely. It just – it wasn’t fair. I was sick of looking over my shoulder, of being afraid. Everyone had already seen the picture anyway, so it wasn’t like – I didn’t even think of the fact that I was confirming the rumors. I thought I was taking control. Being out on my own terms, you know?”

Lafayette nods encouragingly, and Alex adds, “I talked to Eliza about it, and I – if we made it a statement, a public declaration, then maybe the next person wouldn’t feel like they had to hide, because they wouldn’t be alone.”

“That was brave of you,” Lafayette tells him. “A noble reason.”

“Yeah, except I didn’t talk to John first. I didn’t ask him if he was okay with it. I just assumed – we’re so much alike. John’s not afraid of a fight. But I didn’t think – I _betrayed_ him, Laf.”

Shaking his head, Lafayette taps Alex’s chest again. “Non, Alex. Your heart, your intentions were true. Yes, you made a mistake. I won’t argue with that. You are impulsive, but so is John. Sometimes you both need to learn to watch before you jump.”

“Look before you leap,” Alex corrects automatically, then narrows his eyes. “I’m onto you, you know. You mess up idioms on purpose.”

Lafayette blinks innocently. “Now why would I do something like that?”

Alex tries to raise his eyebrows, but winds up wincing when the movement pulls at his stitches. “I don’t know, _mon ami_ , but maybe it has something to do with your insistence at knocking down people’s walls.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Lafayette demurs.

Flopping back on the cushion, Alex says, “Whatever. None of it matters, because John’s never going to forgive me. I don’t deserve it, anyway.”

“Isn’t that John’s decision to make?” Lafayette points out.

Alex doesn’t answer. Squirming into a more comfortable position that doesn’t make his aching ribs protest, he says, addressing the ceiling, “You know, George and Martha want me to see a therapist.”

Lafayette hums. “I used to go when I was younger. I think John told you about my panic attacks?”

Carefully, Alex replies, “He might’ve mentioned it once.”

Lafayette’s hand lands on Alex’s ankle, patting it absently like he would a cat. “I’d get them at night, mostly, when I couldn’t sleep. Even though I knew it was a panic attack, I would still get so scared, and it only made me panic more. Martha used to sit up with me, rubbing my back until I calmed down.”

“Is that why they made you go to therapy? To fix you?”

“Therapy is not like setting a bone, or stitching up a cut in your forehead,” Lafayette says pointedly. “There is no ‘fixing’ people. But it can help, sometimes, to talk about the things that make you sad or anxious so they don’t keep eating away at you, to learn how your brain works so you can understand the things it does.”

The basement ceiling is a plain, boring white with those little recessed lights set in it. Alex counts them, three up, three down, again and again. “Why does everyone want me to talk about things? The past is the past. None of it matters now.”

“Of course our pasts matter!” Lafayette bursts out. “It makes us who we are. I would not be the same person I am now if my father hadn’t died when I was very young, and if my mother, in her grief, hadn’t sent me to live with my grandparents here in America. When they died, I was shuffled from relative to relative, but most of them were after my inheritance, and didn’t really care about me. I was very angry by the time CPS placed me with Martha and George, but I didn’t have the words to explain it. It was a long time before I figured out that the anger was just covering up how scared and hurt I was. Therapy helped me figure that out, and eventually the panic attacks went away.”

For a long moment, Alex is quiet. “Thanks for telling me all that,” he says at last. “I appreciate it. I really do. But I’m still not ready to talk about my past.”

“That’s fair,” Lafayette agrees. “How about this, then? When something is wrong, you tell me. Even if all you say is that you’re not ready to talk about it.”

A wry smile twists Alex’s lips. “You mean you don’t want me to lie and say I have homework, and then hide in my room to avoid the problem?”

Lafayette grins back at him. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Shaking his head, Alex says, “Well, you already know what’s wrong this time. If you have any idea how to make things right with John, I’m all ears.”

Lafayette considers this. “Whatever you come up with, I think you need to talk to him before you do anything. Look before you leap, yes?”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “You’re probably right about that.” He sighs. “Monday’s not gonna be fun.”

Making a face, Lafayette repeats, “Monday? Alex, you know next week is spring break.”

Alex sits up. “What? No it’s not. Really?”

With a laugh, Lafayette says, “Oh, mon chou, what are we going to do with you?”

-

Alex spends three days with a notebook and pen clutched in his hand, brainstorming how to set things right, how to make it up to John. Nothing he comes up with can undo the damage, or erase the look of hurt and betrayal on John’s face that’s now seared in the back of Alex’s eyelids. It keeps him up at night, along with his slowly healing body.

The stitches in his eyebrow itch, and coughing or sneezing make his ribs hurt with sharp jabs of pain. His black-eye has started to fade, but the bruised skin looks worse ringed with green and yellow. It’s like he’s been turned inside out, everything painful and ugly he’s been holding inside now visible to everyone. He feels exposed, and he hates it.

Hates the little voice in his head that reminds him he deserves it; how hard it is to drown it out.

The idea strikes him one night as he’s tossing and turning in bed, too hot with the comforter pulled up but too cold with it pushed down, unable to turn his mind off and let sleep find him. His words are what got him into this mess, he realizes, and they’re the only thing that can salvage what little he hasn’t managed to destroy.

Getting out of bed entirely, he boots up his laptop, tapping his fingers impatiently while it blinks to life.

He opens up a new document, and at first the sentences come out clunky, almost incoherent. Gritting his teeth, Alex keeps typing until his rough draft is sketched out, then scrolls back to the beginning and starts editing until he’s got something passable.

It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

He collapses back into bed, his mind finally numbed, and sleeps until midafternoon.

-

“I need your help,” Alex tells Laf later, once he’s woken up and showered and feels semi-human again. “I need you to convince John to talk to me for like, five minutes.”

“Mon ami, I’m not sure I can convince John to talk to _me_ for five minutes.”

Alex reaches out and puts his hand on Laf’s shoulder, holding on tight. “Please, Laf. Just try?”

Laf ruffles Alex’s shower damp hair. “I’ll try,” he promises, pulling out his phone.

-

Whatever Laf says must work, because John agrees to meet him at Waffle Shack the next day. Lafayette drives Alex, and waits for him in the parking lot on the condition Alex orders him a waffle to go.

“Don’t forget, get the syrup on the side, oui? It will be all soggy otherwise.”

“I will not bring you back a soggy waffle, okay? Cross my heart.”

Lafayette offers him a crooked smile. “Good luck, Alex.”

Taking a deep breath, Alex climbs out of the car and crosses the parking lot, the little bell above the door jingling as he opens it. Inside the diner, John’s already sitting at their usual booth, a glass of ice water on the table in front of him.

“Hi,” Alex says, sliding into the seat across from him before he can chicken out and flee back to the safety of the car. “Um. Thanks for meeting me.”

John’s got his phone out, and doesn’t immediately look up. “We have to make this quick. My dad thinks I’m running to the store, and if I don’t come home with some groceries he’ll know I lied.”

Alex swallows, nervously running his fingers along the smooth edges of his splint. “Right, okay. I know that I—”

“Shit,” John interrupts, voice low. Alex glances up from his hands to find John staring at him.

“I heard it was bad, but you look terrible,” John tells him.

“You should see the other guy,” Alex tries to joke.

John doesn’t laugh. “I did. It’s very obvious he won.”

Alex winces. Maybe John only said yes to meeting him so he could see the evidence of Alex’s dumb choices himself. “It looks worse than it feels,” he lies. At least, that’s starting to become true. “I really, um. Look, I don’t know how else to say I’m sorry. I don’t even know how to look at myself in the mirror right now, but fucking up seems to be such a trend in my life that the Washingtons are probably gonna put me in therapy, so like. Maybe someday I’ll work through all my issues and be a person you could look in the eye again.”

“Alex,” John says, almost helplessly.

Reaching into his pocket, Alex pulls out a folded piece of paper, trying to smooth away the creases as he lays it out flat on the table. “I know I can’t undo what I did, that I truly fucked up, but I’m trying my best to stop the worst of the damage. Lafayette, um, he said that I need to start looking before I leap, so here.”

He slides the paper across the table to John. “Please read it and let me know what you think. If – if any changes need to be made, or you don’t agree with any of it. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask Angelica to run it next week when we’re back in school. Once you approve of the final draft, I mean.”

John’s eyes flick down to the paper, skimming quickly before meeting Alex’s again. “You’re serious about this?”

Alex worries his lip between his teeth. “I don’t know if it’s enough, to help with your dad, but I thought…”

Carefully, John folds the paper again. “I can keep this?”

Alex nods. “Of course.”

Sliding out of the booth, John hesitates for a moment. “I really need to go. I—” He lifts his hand like he wants to reach out, but drops it after only a few seconds. “I’ll let you know, okay? I just need some time to think about some things.”

He turns and walks away, tucking Alex’s paper into his pocket.

Alex watches his retreating back before remembering to flag down a waitress to order Lafayette’s waffle, “Syrup on the side, please.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> **LAKE FOREST TIMES: SPECIAL EDITION [DRAFT]  
>  CORRECTION/RETRACTION**
> 
> By Alexander Hamilton
> 
> Last week, I published a piece in the _Lake Forest Times_ regarding privilege and sexual orientation. I stand by every word I wrote in that publication, except for the last sentence. I was wrong to pose such a personal question in a public forum, especially for a student who doesn’t identify the same way I do. The student referenced in the previous publication has been an unflinching ally for people like me, and has always, in the short time I’ve known them, stood up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.
> 
> It was never my intention to make implications about that student’s identity, or to put them in an uncomfortable or unsafe situation, but that is what I did. I misconstrued their support, and used them to make a political statement without thinking about how my actions would affect them. For this, I apologize.
> 
> Every student at Lake Forest deserves to feel safe, including students who identify as straight, and allies to those who don’t. I’m sorry my actions did the opposite, and I will keep working to do better.
> 
> It’s my hope that this is a lesson we can all learn.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said this fic was gonna be 10 chapters + an epilogue? ha ha ha. things got out of hand. i can say with some confidence that there are only 1-2 chapters left, plus that epilogue. 
> 
> as always, thank you all for the comments/kudos - it really does keep me motivated to finish this beast!


	12. twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the problem is I got a lot of brains but no polish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't think there's any new warnings for this chapter, just the usual themes

“I don’t know,” Alex says, uncertain. “This feels weird.”

“Of course you think it’s weird,” Lafayette says, wrestling the laptop out of Alex’s loose grip and plopping it onto his own lap. “You don’t even believe in therapy.”

Flopping back onto the mattress, Alex sighs loudly. “I don’t – dude, I don’t think therapy is like, a made-up thing.”

“Mmhmm,” Lafayette hums, tapping away at the keyboard. “It’s just only effective on people who aren’t you.”

With a groan, Alex says, “That’s not what I’m saying, either.” He quickly adjusts his argument, though, since it was on the tip of his tongue to say exactly that. “It’s just – this feels like browsing a dating website, or something. It’s _weird_.”

Without looking, Lafayette reaches over and flicks Alex’s forehead, avoiding his stitches. “You can read reviews online about anything. Why should therapists be any different? Oh, this website has pictures! Look.”

Spinning the laptop around, Lafayette shows Alex a profile for a middle-aged white man with a combover and a long, impressive list of initials after his name, including PhD. “See? Isn’t this helpful? This man’s eyes are too close together and he doesn’t look trustworthy at all. What if you’d picked him at random and didn’t know until the first appointment? What a waste that would have been.”

“You can’t tell if someone’s trustworthy or not based on how far apart their eyes are, Laf.” Alex does take a closer look at the picture, though. “I will admit there’s something… unlikeable about him,” he finally acknowledges.

“Ha! I told you so.” Snatching the laptop back, Lafayette starts scrolling earnestly, nose nearly pressed to the screen.

Shaking his head, Alex tells him, “Let me know when you find a real winner.” He’s hopeful Lafayette will judge all the therapists he finds online and find them wanting, and Alex can still back out of this whole therapy thing. It makes him apprehensive to think about, despite Lafayette’s enthusiasm.

Alex’s laptop still balanced on his thighs, Lafayette leans against Alex’s headboard, making himself at home. He’s spent most of spring break tailing Alex like a shadow, but Alex can’t find it within himself to mind.

“Hey,” he starts to say. “Do you think—”

He cuts himself off at the noise: a small, almost inaudible plink against the window. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Lafayette sounds distracted, not looking up from the screen.

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked wh—there it is again!” It’s louder the second time, or maybe it’s just that Alex is paying attention. Rolling over, he climbs out of bed, padding on socked feet to the window. Easing it open – not an easy task; it seems the windows are original to the house, and the frame is nearly painted shut – Alex jumps when the next rock sails through the open crack, landing on the floor and skittering under the desk.

“What was _that_?” Lafayette asks, finally looking up.

“You’re unbelievable,” Alex tells him before shoving his shoulder under the edge of the window and shoving it the rest of the way open. He sticks his head through, and almost catches a rock with his face for his troubles.

“Hey!” he yelps, dodging out of the way just in time.

“Oh shit,” a familiar voice from the ground calls. “Sorry!”

It’s dark outside, and it takes Alex’s eyes a moment to adjust. He blinks a few times, not trusting his eyes, but the figure standing on the Washington’s lawn matches the voice.

“ _John?”_ Alex asks, just to be sure _._ “What are you doing?”

“It’s _John_? What—”

Alex hastily shushes Lafayette in time to hear John’s response.

“I – you wouldn’t answer your phone, and I needed to talk to you.”

Alex still hasn’t responded to all the texts and voicemails following the fight. It’s entirely possible he turned his phone back off and shoved it in a drawer to avoid dealing with it all, not that he’d admit anything of the sort to Lafayette.

If he’d known that John was trying to reach him, he’d have had his ringer on as loud as it would go.

“You could’ve called Lafayette,” Alex points out instead, because that’s a lot to admit while yelling down from a second-floor window.

“Oh, so you’re the only one who can make stupid, impulsive decisions without thinking things through?” John yells back. Alex can’t make out his expression in the dark, but he does catch the way John shoves a frustrated hand through his hair. “Damn it, that came out wrong. Look, would you come down here before I wake up the whole neighborhood and someone calls the cops on me?”

“Give me two seconds.” Ducking back inside, Alex turns to find an open-mouthed Lafayette watching him with wide eyes.

“Do not tell me that John Laurens just showed up here throwing rocks at your window. Mon ami, that is positively _romantic_.”

“Sure,” Alex agrees, pulling on a sweatshirt – not John’s, which is tucked safely away back in the closet, smelling regrettably like the Washington’s detergent instead of John because it was too gross not to wash – “Except that he probably came to tell me about his revisions for the article where I tell the whole school he’s straight and I’m the idiot who took things too far.”

Lafayette looks suitably sympathetic. “At least he’s talking to you again?”

Tugging out the elastic holding his hair back, Alex smooths the stray strands back into place before fastening it again. “Find me the most trustworthy therapist, yeah? Someone with super spaced out eyes and who doesn’t have a problem with heartbroken bi kids.”

Lafayette salutes him, like he isn’t going to have his face pressed to the window to watch Alex and John’s entire conversation play out.

Hurrying down the stairs, Alex shoves his feet into the first pair of shoes he comes across. They’re a little big on him, so they must be Laf’s, but they’ll do for the quick walk around the side of the house, where John’s waiting for him with his hands tucked into his pockets.

“Hi,” John says when Alex reaches him. “Um. Sorry, if I got you with a rock. That works a lot better in the movies.”

“I half expected you to have a boombox,” Alex says, realizing too late that making that particular joke is awkward at best. He clears his throat, quickly adding, “But this isn’t actually an 80s movie, so. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

John licks his lips. “Your eye looks a lot better.”

It’s too dark for John to be able to tell that with any certainty, but Alex self-consciously touches his hand to his stitches anyway. “Um. Thanks?”

Shaking his head, John says, “I still can’t believe that you got into a fight with Burr of all people.”

Alex fidgets, uncomfortable. “It wasn’t my finest moment.” His brain, as always, is a few seconds behind his mouth, and he’s quick to add, “I’ve had a lot of not so great moments the past couple weeks, actually.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I’ve noticed.” Before Alex can figure out how to respond to that, John continues, “I, um. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Reaching into his pocket, John pulls out a worn piece of paper, folded into a small square. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what he’s holding.

“You finished the revisions?” Alex asks, his stomach twisting.

Running his finger along the folded edge of the paper, John says slowly, “I didn’t make any revisions.”

“Oh.” It feels a little like the ground has dropped out from under Alex’s feet, even though he should’ve been expecting it. “Um, well. I have a copy saved on my hard drive, so I – you can keep that copy, or throw it out, whatever. I don’t need it back, I mean.”

“I didn’t make any revisions,” John repeats, just as slowly. “Because I don’t want you to run it.”

Alex’s mind is normally sharp. Quick to process information and spit out a response, though not always in that order. It must be short circuiting, because he can’t figure out whatever it is that John is clearly trying to tell him.

“Uh. You want me run a different article? Did you write something instead?”

John’s still playing with the folded piece of paper, turning it over and over in his hands. “You’re such an idiot sometimes, Alex. And I’m still so pissed when I think about what you did, but I – shit. I don’t know that it was dumb luck that only your face was visible in that picture, that only you were outed. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

The change in topic is abrupt, and John’s still unusually fidgety. Alex rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t really think it was some sort of conspiracy.”

Huffing out a breath, John says, “No, no, nothing that extreme. Just – if the intent of taking that picture of us and spreading it around the internet was to out us – I mean, it wouldn’t have been hard to attach my name to it. Like you said, a lot of people assumed it was me anyway. But whichever coward it was that took the picture didn’t do that. They just went after you.”

“I’m a pretty easy target,” Alex points out, in case that’s somehow escaped John’s notice.

“That’s what I’m saying. If my dad found out about the picture – he’d throw his weight around, demanding to know who posted it, who shared it, tying everyone involved up in litigation for years even if he didn’t have any legal reason to actually sue anyone to protect my image. His image.” John looks up from the folded paper, meeting Alex’s eye. “I’m not an easy target. I don’t think it was an accident that my face wasn’t visible. If I were braver, I would’ve stood by you anyway, but I let you take all the heat on your own.”

Shoving his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt because he can’t figure out what to do with them, Alex says in a small voice, “I still shouldn’t have published that article.”

“No,” John agrees. “Especially blindsiding me like that.”

Taking a step forward, Alex urges, “So let me run the correction. I can’t take back what I did, but this might – it could undo some of the damage.”

“The fact that you’re willing to throw yourself under the bus for me in the first place is the reason I’m here, but Alex, I don’t want you to go through with it.”

Sighing with frustration, Alex asks him, “Then what can I do to make it right?”

John just looks at him for a long moment. “Did you know I missed you like crazy, even when I was so pissed at you, I thought I might punch you in the face if you got too close? I picked up my phone so many times to call you, but I just couldn’t – fuck. You have no idea how hard these past couple of weeks have been.”

Alex can guess, but he wisely chooses not to. “Laf said,” he ventures instead. “Things with your dad… he wouldn’t tell me any details.”

Laughing with no humor, John says, “It hasn’t been pretty. He wanted to send me to some military school to ‘straighten me out’ – don’t think the pun was intended, since he’s pretty much convinced himself that this is all some kind of rebellion to get back at him – but my mom was able to help me talk him out of it, under the condition that I buckle down and study basically 24-7. _Her_ solution is to keep bringing up all of her friends who have daughters my age and trying to set me up, since,” John adopts a breathy, high-pitched voice, “’this will all blow over if you go on a few dates with a respectable young lady and show your father you’re serious about trying to clean up your act.’”

Alex whistles. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” John drops his eyes again, thumbing the corner flap of the folded paper. “I asked my mom, you know, hypothetically what she would do if I told her I wasn’t interested in ever dating a girl, and she told me she’d pray for me to find my way back to the Lord, and that I should pray for the same thing.”

The words are out before Alex can think through them. “I bet Martha would adopt you, if you need a mom who’d support and love you unconditionally.”

For the first time, John’s mouth twitches into an almost-smile. “Yeah, I bet she would.”

“So what are you going to do?” Alex asks, twisting his fingers inside his sweatshirt pouch. “Go out with some girl until they’ve decided your act is…” he stumbles over the word, angry with how unfair it is. “’Clean’ enough?”

“Well, I thought.” John pauses, biting at his lower lip. “I thought maybe what I would do is sneak out of the house and talk to the one person I know who’d do the brave, but stupid, thing. The person who never backs down from a fight, even when the odds are against them and they probably should, even when the payoff can’t possibly be worth the potential consequences.” Holding up the folded piece of paper, John offers it to Alex. “The person who cares enough to try to make things right when they fuck up.”

Alex reaches out to take the paper, his fingertips brushing John’s. “Won’t it just make things worse? You spending time with me? What if your parents find out?”

“Yeah, that’s the thing, though. They already did.”

The scab on his lip hurts a little when his mouth twists into a frown. “I don’t follow.”

“I was scared, Alex.” John’s voice is low, intense. Almost pleading as he tries to get Alex to understand. For once in his life, Alex bites his tongue, just trying to listen. “So scared of what would happen if my parents found out if I was gay. But now… now I know. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s almost as bad as I thought it’d be, but – the not knowing was eating at me. Weighing on me. But you published the article, and it was like you – I don’t know, like you pulled the pin on a grenade.”

Alex grimaces. “It doesn’t sound… pleasant when you put it that way.”

“It wasn’t,” John says bluntly. “But I survived. You pulled the pin, and everything exploded, but I’m still here. I’m okay. Or, I mean, I will be. God, I hope I will be.”

Alex’s fingers close over the folded paper, crumpling it into a ball so he can keep himself from reaching for John’s hand. “Tell me what I can do to help you pick up the pieces. To help you be okay again.”

Lifting his hand to his mouth, John bites at his thumbnail while he considers his answer. “Don’t pull the pin on me like that again. I don’t think I can take another grenade. Not from you. Because I – god help me, Alex, I like you so fucking much. And I don’t think I can do this without you either.”

Mouth dry, Alex has to swallow a couple times. “Do what, exactly?”

John doesn’t look away. “I don’t want to date a respectable girl because it will make my mom happy, or get my dad off my back. I want to date _you_. Even if it means my parents somehow find out, and my mom puts my name in the prayer circle at church, and my dad – fuck, who knows what he’ll do. I don’t care. I mean, I care, but I – I can take it, I think, if that’s what it comes to. I know I can take whatever happens at school, especially if we have Herc and Laf, and—”

“Hang on one second,” Alex interrupts. “Can we go back to the part where you said – you want to date me again? Shouldn’t I be groveling on my knees for another chance?”

This time, John’s lips twitch with obvious amusement. “Oh. Yeah, no, for sure. That’s a good idea.”

Alex immediately drops to his knees, the damp from the dew-covered grass seeping into his jeans. “I have a lot of confidence in my ability to make a strong argument on why you should take me back, but you tipped your hand pretty obviously, so instead I’m gonna focus this argument on why I think you should kiss me, because it’s been so long and nothing makes me—”

Instead of pulling Alex back to his feet, John lets his legs fold until his knees hit the ground, and his hands find Alex’s shoulders, sliding up his neck to cup his face.

“You’re going to get all wet, the grass is soak—”

“Shut up,” John tells him, rubbing his thumb over Alex’s cheek, just under his almost-healed bruise. “You dumbass. Why’d you let Burr do this to your face?”

“I didn’t _let_ him do anyth—”

“Hey, listen to me, okay?” John interrupts again, his touch careful. Almost reverent. “I forgive you. Don’t break my heart again, and I won’t break yours. Deal?”

“Those are fair terms,” Alex agrees, fingers slipping over John’s chest, past his collar bones to grab hold of his shoulders. His face is close enough that even in the darkness, Alex could count the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks.

He hesitates, mouth inches from John’s, waiting for him to make the first move, to be sure that this is what John really, truly wants.

“Kiss already!” Lafayette calls from the window, startling them both.

“Lafayette, I swear to _god_ —”

Hands cupping Alex’s face, John pulls him in and slants their mouths together, cutting Alex off. Alex’s legs are freezing, cold dew saturating his jeans, and his lip stings where John’s mouth presses against his cut, but Alex never, ever wants this moment to end.

John’s the one to pull back, an apology on his lips. “I’m sorry, I have to -- I can’t stay, if my dad finds out I left—”

“Go,” Alex tells him, even as he curls his fingers in John’s shirt, tugging him in for another kiss. John lets him, but only for a moment.

Then he’s extracting himself from Alex’s grip, climbing to feet, eyes flicking worriedly towards the street where his car is parked. “I really need to—”

“Go,” Alex says again, but this time, he doesn’t hold John back. “I’ll wait for you.”

John’s smile is a flash of white in the dark. “I’ll be back. As soon as I can. I promise you that.”

-

The rest of spring break passes far too quickly, even though Alex only gets a few stolen with John whenever he can sneak out of the house. Too soon, Alex finds himself in the backseat of the Washington’s SUV, running a nervous finger over the seam of his khakis before school Monday morning.

“You both didn’t have to come,” he mumbles for what might be the third time. The knowledge that George is missing work on his account makes his palms sweat. Martha said they didn’t plan to kick him out, but they’re going to get tired of Alex messing up their lives eventually.

“This is important,” is George’s only response, flipping on the blinker before turning into the school’s visitor parking lot. It’s early, but there are still a few students hanging around, taking advantage of the warm weather.

Alex feels their eyes on him as he follows the Washingtons inside.

The chairs in Principal Franklin’s office are just as hard and uncomfortable as Alex remembers, and the early morning sunlight slants off the prominent bald spot on Franklin’s head. Alex shifts in his seat, trying not to stare.

“Thank you both for being here this morning,” Franklin starts, addressing George and Martha as if Alex isn’t sitting in between them. “As you know, we’ve made the decision to handle the incident involving Mr. Hamilton in-house, rather than involving the authorities, and be—”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” George interrupts, and Alex hastily hides a smile behind his hand at the expression on Franklin’s face. “But before we address the ‘incident,’ as you put it, Martha and I have some concerns about how your school’s zero-tolerance policy is being enforced.”

Franklin opens his mouth like he has something to say, but doesn’t have the spine to actually interrupt George, who continues in that same, uncompromising tone, “Alex has been the target of bullying and harassment for several weeks, which we were not made aware of until after he was hospitalized for the injuries he sustained in the ‘incident.’”

Franklin’s mouth flaps a few more times. “I – the administration here only learned of the bullying after the fight, you understand, and we didn’t—”

“That’s where our concern lies,” Martha interjects. Alex doesn’t think he’s imagining the flush slowly crawling up Franklin’s neck. He’s feeling less than comfortable himself. “A student with Alex’s background has no reason to trust the adults in his life, particularly if they appear indifferent when there are obvious signs of harassment. And the signs should have been obvious, Mr. Franklin. Not only was a picture circulated on several social media sites, but students made derogatory comments before and after school, and in the hallways. How does this create a safe environment for students, particularly LGBT students?”

Smoothing his tie and readjusting his glasses appears to give Franklin a moment to get his bearings and mount a defense. “You seem quite knowledgeable about what was allegedly happening in my school. I wonder that you didn’t share you concerns before this morning.”

“Make no mistake, Mr. Franklin,” Martha says in a voice that makes even George sit a little straighter in his chair. “Had I been aware this was happening prior to the ‘incident,’ I would have made my concerns known.”

Franklin must have a spine after all, because he asks pointedly, “Mr. Hamilton didn’t share what was going on with you prior to the incident?”

Alex sinks lower into his seat, hoping the floor will open beneath his chair and save him from this conversation. It remains stubbornly solid, even as George and Martha exchange a look over his head.

It’s Martha who speaks again. “Quite frankly, Mr. Franklin, I would be shocked if Alex were the only LGBT student attending this school. Now that I’ve had first hand experience with how your school’s administration puts the burden on students to ask for help when they’re facing harassment, rather than creating a safe space and culture of tolerance that would prevent it from happening in the first place, I’m not surprised at the lack of other students who are open with their sexuality. When adults send a message that they’re going to turn the other cheek, children respond in kind – and quickly lose trust. George and I are working hard to undo the damage your faculty has done in this case so that next time, Alex does feel like he can tell us about this sort of issue before it spirals out of control. I’d like to know what steps you’ll be taking to ensure that he – and other students – have the same support at school so that this doesn’t continue to happen in the future.”

Silence rings loudly after Martha’s speech, and Alex’s chest feels a little tight. He doesn’t catch Franklin’s response, the conversation continuing to flow around him, and at first he thinks he’s having a panic attack. His breathing stays steady, though, and the tightness in his chest climbs into his throat, lodging just behind his Adam’s apple. It takes him a long time to realize the emotion he’s feeling isn’t a bad one – just overwhelming.

He’s never had someone stand up for him the way Martha and George just have, especially after he’s done something incredibly stupid like getting into a fight.

“Are you alright, Alex?” Martha asks him, leaning closer so she can lower her voice.

He nods, not trusting his.

“Yes, of course,” Franklin is saying when Alex tunes back in. “We’ll add it to the agenda for the next PTA meeting. Now, if there’s anything else…?”

Apparently the conversation is over, at least for today. Getting to his feet, Alex follows Martha out the door that George holds open for them both.

They get as far as the hallway before Alex stops them.

“You know Burr and I didn’t actually get into it over – over me being bisexual.”

George places a hand on Alex’s shoulder. He wonders if he’ll ever feel like he’s not sinking under its weight.

“I know, son.” He corrects himself. “Alex. And if you hadn’t taken accountability afterwards, Martha and I would have had a slightly different conversation in there. But you’ve been carrying a lot of baggage, and the stress that creates sometimes leads to poor decision making. It’s our job to help you figure out how to set some of that baggage down so that next time, you don’t feel like you’re backed into a corner with no other way out.”

There must be dust in this hallway, because Alex’s eyes are suddenly watery. “Oh,” he says.

“We won’t embarrass you by lingering at school,” Martha says. “But we’d like to continue this conversation later, and get your input before the PTA meeting next week. Maybe a list of changes the faculty should make, or things that would help you feel more supported?”

Alex missed most of that part of the conversation, but he can put two and two together. Martha and George will be showing up with an agenda, and if they get their way, there might actually come a day where Alex and John could walk down the hallway holding hands like the straight couples do, without looking over their shoulders, waiting for the Lee’s of the school to start something.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’d – sure.”

He then makes his escape to the bathroom, where he avoids his reflection, which still carries the last of the evidence of his fight.

By the time he meets up with John and Hercules before first period, Alex has got his emotions back in check. He even manages to laugh off Herc’s comments about the last of the yellow-tinged skin under his eye, explaining loftily that he didn’t lose the fight, “It was a _draw_ , okay, and if they hadn’t pulled me off him my stamina alone would have made me the clear winner—”

He hastily shuts his mouth when Eliza marches through the hallway, her expression scarier than Burr’s fist flying towards his face.

“Eliza. Hi.”

She socks him in the shoulder hard enough to hurt, not that Alex would ever admit it.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” she demands. “Half the school was convinced that Aaron hit you so hard he actually killed you, and then you don’t respond to any calls or texts, what were we even supposed to think—”

“Okay, first of all, there is no universe in which _Aaron Burr_ of all people kills me, and—”

“ _Alex_.” There’s enough venom in that single word that Alex stops talking.

“I’m sorry,” he tries instead. There’s more than one curious student watching their interaction, and Alex lowers his voice. “I did have to go to the hospital, but believe me, I’ve had worse.”

Arms crossed over her chest, Eliza sighs. “That does not actually make me feel any better.”

Nudging his shoulder against Alex’s, a physical reminder that he’s here, standing by Alex’s side, John says, “I think we can all agree this wasn’t Alex’s finest week. He’s ready to rejoin society, though, and we could both use a friend right now.”

Eliza’s hard expression softens as she turns to John, immediately understanding his meaning. “Of course. Angelica and I are proud to consider you our friends.” Her eyes flick to Alex. “Mostly.”

“Oh, _ouch_ \--”

John slips his arm over Alex’s shoulder, pulling Alex into his side briefly before letting his arm drop again. The whole interaction lasts five seconds at the most, but it leaves Alex’s heart beating fast. “Thanks,” John tells her. “Really.”

Finally, Eliza cracks a smile.

-

By the time lunch rolls around, it almost feels like the past few weeks never happened, except for the way Alex’s stitches itch as the nearly healed skin knits back together, and the whispers that have been following him around since the picture first surfaced are currently loud enough to reach his ears.

Alex tries not to think about them, or the empty seat in third period where Burr should’ve been. Five-day suspension, Lafayette had informed him, one eyebrow cocked, and banned from all extra-curricular activities for the rest of the year, including prom.

Herc thought it was too harsh; Lafayette not harsh enough. Alex stayed quiet, building a log cabin out of his French fries, remembering how thin that mattress pad had been in the detention center, how they never turned the lights off, even at night.

Funny how the law was the same everywhere in this state, but the consequences could vary so much.

“That’s quite the creation,” John whispers, nudging Alex’s shoulder and gesturing to his fry cabin. One corner is sagging a little, making the lettuce leaf roof slant at a weird angle.

Alex wants to reach beneath the table and take his hand, but it’s not the same under the school’s bright florescent lighting as it was in the cover of darkness. Would John lace their fingers together? Or would he give Alex’s hand a quick squeeze and let go before anyone could notice?

Instead of taking John’s hand, Alex sets about building a carrot stick chimney for his cabin.

“Speaking of prom,” Hercules says, as if they haven’t moved past that particular talking point. Alex tries not to stiffen. “And more importantly, Madison’s after party—”

“Are we still on this topic?” Lafayette shakes his head. “I told you, Adrienne is going to be back in France by then. What is the point of going to prom with no date?”

Hercules rubs his fingers against his temple as if he’s fighting a headache. “I don’t know, to spike the punch and make assholes of ourselves? Look, if none of us have dates, we can all just go as a group and make an appearance, and then hit up Madison’s party. Rumor has it he’s hiring an actual band. We cannot miss this party.”

The carrot chimney keeps falling off, but Alex doesn’t have anything suitable to use as pseudo-cement to hold it in place. He frowns down at his tray, putting all of his attention towards what is clearly the most important issue at hand.

John doesn’t say anything, and Lafayette is so quick to fill the silence it’s possible he hasn’t noticed. “But what band? If it is a shitty cover band, that’s worse than someone’s random i-tunes playlist, no?”

Hercules and Lafayette’s debate grows from spirited to aggressive quickly, but Alex knows that it’s best to just let it run its course.

“I guess I never actually answered your question, did I?” John says, pulling Alex from his wandering thoughts.

His carrot falls over again, hitting the try with a quiet plop. “What question?” Alex asks.

John just looks at him.

“Oh. Yeah. Um.” The one Alex published in the paper. Right. That question.

“I don’t—” John bites his lip. “I don’t want this—” he gestures between himself and Alex, keeping his hand below the edge of the table “—to be a political statement, you know?”

Alex nods. “Because your dad will find out.”

John shakes his head. “No, because – well, that’s part of it, I guess, but mostly I just—"

“Look, I’m not gonna throw any more grenades at you, yeah?” Alex interrupts. He wants more than anything to be able to hold John’s hand in public, except for maybe getting to hold John’s hand at all. He’s not going to do anything to jeopardize that; anything that might break John’s heart. “If you want all of us to go as a group, if that’s easier, safer, whatever, that’s fine with me.”

John doesn’t look convinced, but he still says, “Sure. If you say so.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

> **PTA Meeting Agenda Ideas (draft)**

> \- Actual consequences for hate speech (detention? suspensions?)

> \- Teachers would have to pay attention though, especially in the hallways, and people like Lee aren’t complete idiots – they’d find a way to get away with it

> \- Maybe more LGBT friendly curriculum/publicity – posters, books, videos, etc. Partner with the school newspaper to publish more articles? Make it clear LGBT students are welcome

> \- Gender neutral bathrooms!! (see previously published article in school newspaper)

> \- How do you reach the parents who are anti-gay though?

> \- Even if you make the school safe, how do you make everywhere else safe too?

> \- How can I keep John safe? He says he can take it if his parents find out he’s actually gay, that this isn’t just teenage rebellion (also wtf?? His parents are something else), but what if his dad sends him to military school? Or grounds him forever?

> \- What has he actually told them about me? About the article I published? He wouldn’t let me run the retraction, but we’re still right back where we started

> \- Why can’t anything ever be easy?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy. we are rapidly approaching the end of this thing! there is going to be one more chapter (god willing - we'll see how long this final chapter ends up being lmao) + a shorter epilogue. a massive thank you to everyone who has left comments/kudos. i really can't overstate how motivating they are to read when i'm feeling stuck.
> 
> also, feel free to come say hi/yell at me on [tumblr](https://finestfaceoncurrency.tumblr.com)!


	13. thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't forget from whence you came

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh, this chapter is a little late. my bad. the good news is that not only did i finally finish chapter 13, i also wrote the rough drafts for chapter 14 and the epilogue so we should be back to a weekly posting schedule to finish this thing off! thanks for your patience as i continue to promise it's almost over and then add more and more chapters. yikes @ me. 
> 
> also, no new warnings for this chapter, just the usual themes/angst.

Alex hesitates in the doorway, but Martha’s already inside and Lafayette is behind him, nudging less than subtly against Alex’s back.

“Is this really necessary?” Alex asks Lafayette, taking a reluctant step forward. It’s sunny outside, not a cloud in the sky, and Alex can easily think of a hundred things he’d rather be doing with a rare day off of school. Can’t remember why he ever agreed to this in the first place.

As soon as they’re both through the doorway, Lafayette plants himself at Alex’s side, throwing an arm around his shoulder. From the outside, Alex is sure it looks supportive. But Lafayette’s holding him with a grip of steel, making sure Alex can’t escape.

“Yes, it is,” he says, answering Alex’s question and steering him deeper inside the building. Alex glances back over his shoulder as every step takes them further from the door. “You don’t want to disappoint Martha, do you?”

“It just seems like a waste of money,” Alex argues, but quietly, so Martha doesn’t overhear.

Lafayette shrugs. “Not our money though, is it?”

Martha’s already at the counter, beckoning them over. “Who’s going first?”

With a smooth motion, Lafayette shoves Alex forward. “Alex has volunteered!” he says cheerfully, ignoring the look Alex shoots him behind Martha’s back.

But it’s too late to talk his way out of this. Not with Martha watching him expectantly, sacrificing both her time and money. Not after she had to call around to half a dozen places before she found one that wasn’t booked up through the end of prom season, warning them that if they waited this late next year to tell her about their plans to attend the dance, they were on their own and could wear a “burlap sack” for all she cared.

Lafayette took that one hard, sputtering in indignant French while Martha didn’t bother to hide her amused smile.

It’s for Martha’s sake that Alex takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders before stepping forward. “I’m ready.”

Being measured for a suit doesn’t end up being as bad as Alex thought it would be, though no argument can convince him it’s necessary – not for something as trivial as prom. At least it’s a rental, though Alex is still afraid to see what the price tag will be.

Once the sales clerk – tailor? Alex feels completely out of his element in this store, surrounded by suits and tuxes he can’t afford, doesn’t belong in – finishes measuring both him and Lafayette, he starts asking about what cut and style of suit they want.

“Um,” Alex says, looking to Lafayette and Martha to take the lead. Lafayette cuts in, saving him, and Alex hangs on every word, determined that next time, when he actually needs a suit, he’ll know exactly what to say. What he wants, how to ask for it.

Next time, he might not have Lafayette or Martha to rely on; not once he’s 18 and own his own. If he doesn’t start to figure this out, Martha’s prediction will be right – he’ll be showing up in a burlap sack. Or an ill-fitting suit. This is not an opportunity that Alex can afford to waste.

The clerk goes over different styles and cuts of suits available for rental, showing them the options that they still have available this close to prom. He catches Alex running his fingers over the material, but doesn’t even frown at Alex’s ragged, bitten down nails.

“Now, lets talk colors. For the suit itself, we’ve got black for a more classic look, but also navy, dark or light gray, and white. We can also look at a couple other brighter colors for just the suit jacket, as well as the tie and vest combination.” The clerk smiles with expensive looking teeth. “Of course, we don’t want to make any color choices that might clash with her dress. Are either of you coordinating your look with a date?”

The back of Alex’s neck immediately goes hot, and he rubs a hand over it. Lafayette saves him a second time. “Ah, I’m afraid we are not. It was hard enough to convince this one to go at all.” He claps a hand over Alex’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the tight muscle. “Our only priority to make sure he looks as good as possible, yes?”

“Please shut up,” Alex mumbles.

Either the clerk doesn’t hear him, or professionally chooses to ignore it. “That’s what I’m here for,” he says with complete confidence, steering Alex over to a rack of suit jackets, Lafayette and Martha in tow.

-

It feels like hours before they make their escape, and the sun’s too bright when they step outside, making Alex squint.

Martha frowns at her watch and clucks her tongue. “Well, we’re cutting it a little close, but I think we’ll make it on time.” She shoots an unimpressed look their way. “If either of you spring last minute corsage plans on me, you’re on your own.”

Grinning, Lafayette says, “We’ll just pick fresh flowers from your garden, non?” He goes for the backseat, probably to avoid the swat Martha aims his way, leaving the front for Alex.

He buckles his seatbelt as she pulls out of the parking lot, already feeling a little emotionally drained from this morning alone and not particularly looking forward to their next errand. His mind starts to wander, but doesn’t get very far before Martha asks him, “Are you alright, Alex? You’re quiet this morning.”

Her gentle words pull him back, and he focuses on his knee instead, trying to keep his leg from bouncing as he runs his fingers over the seam in his jeans. “Yeah, fine,” he lies.

Martha doesn’t push it, but maybe that’s because the car is already slowing as they approach their second destination of the day. Alex glances at the clock. Damn. He was hoping traffic would be so bad that they’d be late after all and have to cancel, but here they are with a few minutes to spare.

There’s nothing particularly special about the building; only a small, unobtrusive sign above the door indicating they’ve found the right place. The inside is just as bland – worn carpet and a few chairs tucked into the corner, along with a potted fern. Alex reminds himself to breathe.

If Martha and Laf hadn’t come inside with him, he probably would have turned around and walked right back out. Instead, Alex stands reluctantly at Martha’s side as she checks in with the receptionist and pretends he can’t feel the weight of Lafayette’s concerned eyes on him.

“Yes, we’re here for an appointment with Dr. Bayard?”

They’re reassured it will only be a short wait. Lafayette busies himself pawing through the small stack of magazines on the low table near the chairs, looking for something from this decade.

Alex checks to make sure no one is looking, then reaches out and touches his fingertips to the fern.

It’s fake. He wonders if it’s a sign.

The receptionist is truthful at least. In what seems like no time at all, a man matching the profile picture Lafayette showed him a couple short weeks ago – with a trustworthy face, Laf had reassured him – emerges from the hallway that leads deeper into the building, calling Alex’s name. A little too young to be considered middle-aged, but with a lived-in face and normally spaced apart eyes, he seems nice enough. Abigail’s vouched for him, at any rate, which is probably a better indicator that Lafayette’s facial analysis.

“Do you want me to come with you? Just to get you settled?” Martha asks Alex quietly when he hesitates.

Brushing off his anxiety, Alex shakes his head. “I’ll be fine,” he says, wondering if it’s a lie this time.

Without looking back, he takes one last deep breath, then follows Dr. Bayard to his first therapy session.

-

The chairs in the empty waiting room are uncomfortable. Alex tells himself that this is the reason he opts to wait outside for John after his session is over, legs stretched out in front of him as he perches on the curb.

His skin is still winter pale, but even a short wait in the sun will leave him noticeably tanner, thanks to his island roots. Alex lets his head tilt back, face tipped towards the sun and eyes closed against the glare.

The quiet rumble of an engine idling makes him crack his eyes open what could be minutes or hours later. Scrambling to his feet, Alex checks his phone – minutes. It’s only been minutes. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear, he opens the passenger door and slides into John’s car.

“You looked really Zen just now,” John tells him, pulling away before Alex even has his seatbelt buckled.

Alex tries out a smile to see how it fits. A little stretched out, but it manages to stick. “What can I say? Therapy’s cured me of all my ails. I’m one with the universe now.”

John snorts. “Alright, Obi Wan. That mean you’re not coming back next week?” He asks the question lightly, but the way his eyes flick to the right to rest briefly on Alex’s face tells a slightly different story.

Sighing, Alex picks at a ragged nail. “I guess I will. I mean, I don’t think Martha would forgive me if I gave up that easily.” It was hard enough to convince her that she didn’t need to wait for him to make sure his first session went okay, and in the end he only won because John’s dad was out of town on a business trip and his mom actually let him out of the house to pick Alex up.

John eases the car to a stop at a red light without slamming on the brakes. Fingers drumming absently against the steering wheel, he says, “I don’t think Martha wanted you to go therapy for her sake, you know.”

“That’s good, ‘cause I’m not gonna lie, it was kind of a waste of time and money.”

John glances over with a look that says what he thinks of Alex’s honesty. “Really?”

Huffing out a breath, Alex says, “I mean, it was mostly, like, get-to-know-you stuff we did today. We didn’t talk about a single coping skill or identify any triggers. That’s like, Therapy 101.” He’d expected a little more from a therapist who didn’t have to keep an apathetic group of delinquent teens actively engaged. At least in group, he’d learned _something_ , even if most of it only worked in theory.

John hums thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s like, the point though? I mean, you’re supposed to talk about, like, the hard stuff in therapy. The stuff you keep bottled up. It’s not very fair to ask you to do that with someone you don’t know.”

“Maybe,” Alex allows, since it’s clear John’s not going to let him talk his way out of going back. Then he adds, “Hey, can we stop and get ice cream?”

It’s an obvious change in topic, but John doesn’t call him on it. He lets Alex talk about everything that isn’t therapy all the way to John’s favorite ice cream place: a relic from the 70s that’s somehow managed to survive the influx of commercial chains, despite its lack of a face-lift since it was first built. The neon letters on the sign flicker noisily and the sun-bleached picnic tables pose a serious splinter risk, but it’s got the best flavors – and prices – in town.

John doesn’t let Alex pay, which Alex only allows because the $1.25 price for a regular cone doesn’t hurt his pride too much, and it’s one of the few ways John gets to act like his boyfriend. The girl behind the counter clearly thinks nothing of whoever hands over the money, already moving on to the next in the growing line behind them, but something in Alex’s stomach sparks when his fingers brush John’s as he passes Alex his twist cone.

They find an empty table at the edge of the lot, away from everyone else, and John sits next to Alex so he can knock their ankles together under the bench. Alex tries not to preen at the attention, well aware that John will pull away if he suspects anyone is watching them.

For a single moment, Alex just wants to feel normal. Comfortable in his own skin. Accepted for who he is, without pretending to be someone he’s not.

John licks at his cone with precision, careful to keep the rapidly melting ice cream from dripping onto his fingers. Alex, on the other hand, bites off the top, letting the chocolate and vanilla melt together on his tongue. When it runs down onto his fingers, he licks those too, while John just shakes his head at him.

“That’s so gross, dude.”

Alex sticks his entire finger in his mouth, slurping loudly. “Fucking delicious.”

“Sometimes I wonder why I ever agreed to date you,” John says, but takes the sting out of his words by leaning forward and kissing the corner of Alex’s mouth. It’s quick; barely even a peck, and over before the gaggle of pre-school-aged kids shrieking and laughing while their tired babysitter watches over them can notice.

It’s also the most action Alex has gotten in weeks. His heart thuds, kicking into overdrive. He wants more. So much more.

John licks his lips, eyes never leaving Alex’s. “You know, my mom’s got this work thing today – she’s not supposed to be back until late.”

Melted ice cream drips from Alex’s cone onto the table. He ignores it. “What if she comes home early?”

John shakes his head. “I promise you, she won’t.”

Grinning, Alex pushes to his feet. “You’ve convinced me. Let’s go, then.”

-

It’s kind of weird being at John’s house during daylight hours. They’re both quiet as John leads them down to the basement, even though John’s double checked that his mom’s car isn’t in the garage and reassured Alex for the third time that his dad is definitely out of the state on his business trip.

“What if they have one of those, like, nanny cams?” Alex whispers, eyeing the row of books and decorative shit lining the shelves next to John’s giant TV, looking for a tell-tale lens.

“Dude,” John says, grabbing Alex’s arm and throwing himself backwards onto the couch, pulling Alex down with his momentum. Alex lands in a sprawl mostly in John’s lap, and John looks rather pleased with his results. “Relax. We’re not gonna get caught.”

“But—” Alex starts, not sure what exactly he’s going to argue even as he opens his mouth, but John reaches up with his free hand, pulling Alex’s head down until he can crash their lips together. It’s probably the most effective way of shutting Alex up, and he lets himself be kissed, sinking into it.

John buries his fingers in Alex’s hair, loosening his hair tie until his hair spills over his shoulders. “Soft,” he mumbles, pushing it back from Alex’s face. Alex tries not to melt, but it’s a losing battle. They have nowhere to be and nothing to do with a day off school and final exams still weeks away. Alex lets his normally racing thoughts slip away, until his whole world is nothing but the feeling of John’s fingers on his scalp, John’s mouth bruising against his.

“I kinda hope your mom never comes home,” he tells John when he finally pulls back to catch his breath.

John laughs, more a huff of air than actual sound. “That makes two of us.”

The late afternoon sun sneaks through the high basement windows, and Alex’s eyelids grow heavy. He takes a break from kissing John’s mouth to slide his lips over John’s cheek, his jaw, to nip at his fluttering pulse. Burying his nose in John’s neck, Alex shifts his weight a little until he’s tucked along John’s side, his arm and leg draped over him.

“Comfortable?” John asks, sounding amused and a little sleepy himself.

Alex nods, his nose dragging along John’s skin. He smells good, and Alex wonders if he could get away with stealing another sweatshirt to keep that scent on hand.

“Never gonna move,” Alex says, the words muffled because he refuses to lift his head. John doesn’t reply, just reaches up to brush Alex’s hair back, tucking it behind one ear. His message is crystal clear.

 _Stay_.

-

Alex doesn’t mean to fall asleep, though he’s big enough to admit he didn’t exactly give it his all to stay awake. He blinks blearily, trying to figure out what woke him up, then freezes when the voice comes again, jarring him fully into consciousness.

“ _John! Are you downstairs?”_

Suddenly wide-eyed, Alex stares at John, his heart lodged firmly in his throat and beating wildly. “Is that your mom? Dude, you said she wouldn’t come home early!”

“I— aww, shit.” John’s still clearly half-asleep himself. The basement’s grown dim with the setting sun, smudgy shadows painting everything in hues of blue. It makes John’s grimace more pronounced. “I don’t think she’s early. We slept too long.”

The stairs creak as John’s mom starts to descend. “John?” she calls again.

Alex pushes himself up into a sitting position, but his legs are still tangled up with John’s. “Should I hide? Or – I don’t know, go out the window?” It’s not dark yet, but if John can distract his mom, Alex could sneak out the back, maybe call Lafayette for a ride once he’s in the clear.

Slowly, John sits up. There’s a pink mark on his cheek, and although his eyes are a little puffy from sleep, they’re still sharp as he glances between Alex and the doorway, like maybe he’s sizing up the distance.

“No,” he quickly decides. “I think you should stay right there.”

“But—” Alex starts to say as the final step creaks. The window for his escape is closing rapidly. “John,” Alex whispers desperately. “What—”

“ _John_ ,” his mom echoes from just beyond the doorway. “Are you – oh.”

The silence only lasts a few seconds, but they’re the longest seconds of Alex’s life. For once, he can’t think of a single thing to say. John must get his looks from his dad, because his mom is fair-haired and blue-eyed, without a freckle in sight. Then again, maybe it’s makeup. Her red lip-sticked mouth thins as she takes in the sight of John and Alex sitting too close on the couch, but her expression otherwise doesn’t change.

“I didn’t realize you had company,” Mrs. Laurens says at last, in a tone so carefully neutral that Alex inwardly cringes.

“This is my friend Alex,” John replies, just as neutrally. There’s clearly an entire conversation happening on another plane that Alex isn’t on. He feels like a pawn in a game of chess he never agreed to play.

He should’ve made a break for the window when he had a chance.

The seconds tick by again before Mrs. Laurens finally asks, “Does your friend Alex want to stay for dinner?”

“Oh, um,” Alex quickly interjects, pulling his hair back into a ponytail and trying not to cringe when his fingers catch in the snarled strands. He must look like a mess, but it’s not going to stop him from trying to dig himself out of this hole. “We were just finishing up – uh, studying, and I think I should probably get going home, before, um…” He trails off, throwing John a look to beg silently for an assist.

John comes through. “Alex has a pretty strict curfew.”

The way Mrs. Laurens’ red smile curls makes Alex’s stomach drop. “I’m sure Martha and George wouldn’t mind Alex staying a little longer. I’ve heard so much about him. I’d love the chance to get to know him for myself.”

Alex doesn’t have to look at John to know he’s just witnessed a checkmate.

-

Dinner is fettuccine alfredo with shrimp and a side of salad, which smells delicious but tastes like nothing with nerves ruining his appetite. Alex chases a crouton uselessly around with his fork before hastily shoving a bite of salad in his mouth when he feels Mrs. Laurens’ eyes on him.

It takes forever to chew, and settles heavily in his stomach when he swallows. Despite his nerves, the conversation starts safe enough, with Mrs. Laurens asking about Alex’s studies and how school is going. Alex turns on every bit of charm he’s learned to survive over the years, until Mrs. Laurens’ smile loses its sharp edge and he can take a breath without his lungs feeling tight.

It’s only a second or two that his guard slips, but it’s enough for Mrs. Laurens to land a blow, her words cutting in their efficiency as they slice past his defenses.

“It’s my understanding, Alex, that you came to live with the Washingtons through the foster care system. Is that right?”

Alex nearly chokes on a bite of shrimp. Gulping down a few swallows of water, he manages to get out, “Yes, that’s right.”

He can’t bring himself to look at John, instead staring down at the half-eaten shrimp on his plate. Did it know that its life was over when it was captured in that net? What was its last day of freedom like? Did it let an opportunity for freedom slip through its – its legs? Arms? What do shrimp even have? Fins? That doesn’t seem right.

“Sorry, what was the question?” Alex asks, forcing himself to tune back into the conversation. He accidentally makes eye contact with Mrs. Laurens, and the pity in her expression twists his stomach.

“I said that must’ve been difficult for you, adjusting to a new family. What a blessing the Washingtons were willing to open their home to someone in your situation.” She says ‘situation’ with such vague distaste that Alex nearly flings pasta onto the floor as his grip on his fork tightens hard enough that his fingers jerk.

“Mom,” John says quietly. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she asks, sipping from her wine glass.

“Actually, ma’am,” Alex cuts in, his entire focus on keeping his voice from shaking. “I think the real blessing would have been my mom not dying in the first place. Or even the few photographs I have left of her not being water damaged from the hurricane that destroyed our house. Or maybe even if I could remember what her voice sounded like. I’d count that as a real blessing.”

Mrs. Laurens sets her wine down on the table, but her fingers linger on the stem of the glass. The pity on her face is replaced with the first genuine emotion he’s seen from her all evening. “I see why Martha’s so protective of you,” she says softly.

Alex isn’t really interested in another chess match trying to interpret whatever _that_ means, and it’s getting harder to hide his trembling hands, so he pushes his plate away and gets abruptly to his feet, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Excuse me,” he says. “I really need to be getting home.”

He doesn’t wait for anyone to respond, heading straight for the door and breaking into a jog the second he’s out of the house. He doesn’t have a plan, doesn’t have a coherent thought in his head other than escape. Maybe he’ll call Laf, or fuck it, just walk all the way home.

“Alex!”

He doesn’t even make it halfway down the block before John reaches him, grabbing hold of his arm. “Alex, wait.”

Shaking his head, Alex says, “I’m not, I can’t—”

“Fuck her,” John says fiercely, still clinging to Alex’s arm. “Fuck, Alex, I’m so sorry, if I’d known she was going to be that bad, I never would’ve let her trap us into dinner like that.”

“So it wasn’t just in my head, then. She was – what? Baiting me?”

John slides his hand down Alex’s arm so he can lace their fingers together, still holding on tight. “My mom has made being passive-aggressive an art-form, you know? I think it’s the only way she can deal with my dad. But I really thought – if she met you, maybe she’d get it.”

Alex’s palm is clammy, but John shows no sign of letting go. Alex takes a shaky breath, lets it out. “Get what?”

“Why you’re the most important thing to me.”

For the second time tonight, Alex has no idea how to fill the silence. John raises his free hand to rest it along Alex’s jaw, thumb rubbing gently over his cheek. His eyes are intense in the glow of the streetlight above them. “They think this is some phase, or I don’t know, teenage rebellion. Or maybe that’s what they’re hoping, ‘cause anything would be better than having a gay son. But I don’t care. I don’t. My mom can make all the bitchy, holier-than-thou comments she wants, and my dad can ground me forever, but I don’t _care_. Not as long as I get you.”

Alex squeezes John’s fingers. “I think your mom is watching us from the window right now.”

“Fuck it,” John tells him, and kisses Alex right there in the middle of the sidewalk.

The joy doesn’t last long. John’s barely pulled away before his mom’s voice cuts through the dark.

“John! Come inside. It’s too late to be loitering around.”

“Told you she was watching,” Alex whispers, forehead pressed to John’s.

“Then I hope she’s enjoying the show.” Lips catching the corner of Alex’s mouth for one last kiss, John finally turns around to call back to his mom, “I’m going to give Alex a ride home since the Washingtons are expecting him by his curfew. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

There’s no hint of nerves in his voice, but he’s clutching Alex’s hand hard enough to grind his bones.

“Don’t be late,” comes Mrs. Laurens’ crisp reply. The door shuts with finality behind her, and the curtained windows go dark.

Alex feels winded, like he’s just run a mile. “She gonna have the locks changed by the time you’re back?”

John laughs with no humor, still clinging to Alex’s hand as he leads Alex to his car. “And have me cause a scene out here on the street where the neighbors can see? Nah, that’s not her style.”

“Then what’s going to happen when you get back home tonight?” Alex presses. “Will she tell your dad?”

Pausing to dig out his keys, John fumbles with the fob for a moment before he gets the car unlocked. “I doubt it. Direct confrontation is my dad’s thing, not hers. She probably won’t even add my name to the prayer circle at church, ‘cause then she’d have to admit that I’m—I’m—”

“Gay?” Alex supplies.

John’s smile is wry. “That’s a curse word in our house.” He slides behind the wheel while Alex climbs in the passenger seat, pulling off with a screech of tires as Alex grips the door with white knuckles. “It’s just—” John sighs, pressing his foot down on the accelerator to barrel through a yellow light. “She loves me, in her own way. I think I’m a big disappointment to her, you know? I’m supposed to go to law school, marry some girl with the right pedigree, and give her a couple of grandkids to repeat the cycle.”

Alex doesn’t loosen his grip. “Sounds dull.”

“The fact that I have no interest in being a lawyer, or that I’m, you know, gay, has shot those plans to hell right out of the gate,” John continues, like he hasn’t even registered Alex’s reply. His eyes are on the road, and he swears under his breath as the light ahead of them turns red, stopping just in time.

“For what it’s worth,” Alex says, reaching across the consul for John’s hand. “I don’t think you’re a disappointment.”

John’s quiet for a long moment. “It’s worth more than you know,” he finally says, not looking at Alex, but he does drive the speed limit the rest of the way home.

-

Alex has to miss newspaper for his second therapy session because he couldn’t get a later timeslot, and Laf volunteers to drive him after school lets out with zero hesitation.

“You really don’t have to wait for me,” Alex tells him while Laf idles outside the therapy office.

“By the time I get home, I’ll have to turn around and come back,” Lafayette points out.

Alex rubs his temple. “I can just take the bus.”

“The bus? Mon ami, there is not even a bus stop close to home, and besides—” Lafayette cuts himself off at the look on Alex’s face. “Fine! Just promise me you’ll actually go to therapy, and this is not a way of getting out of it.”

“Why does everyone think I’m trying to get out of therapy?” Alex asks dryly. He climbs out of the car before Laf can answer, heading inside to check in with the receptionist. There’s just one other person in the small waiting area, and Alex takes the chair next to the fake plant, running his fingers along the fronds and accidentally kicking up dust.

Dr. Call-Me-Will Bayard greets Alex like a long-time friend and not some kid he only met last week for a barely 45-minute session. Alex can’t tell if he’s being sincere or just good at faking it. The Washingtons are getting their money’s worth, at least.

“So,” Dr. Will asks, settling in his seat. “What’s on your mind today, Alex?”

“Prom’s next week,” Alex says, because it’s the first thing that pops into his head that seems safe to talk about. As long as he doesn’t mention his date situation. Or the feelings of inadequacy about the suit rental experience. Or the prom-posal that almost ruined his life. He sighs, massaging his temples with both hands.

“That can be a stressful time,” Will comments. “A lot of expectations go into prom night.”

“It’s not that,” Alex says.

Will’s friendly expression doesn’t change. “No?”

When Alex doesn’t immediately answer, the silence grows until it’s uncomfortably thick, not that Dr. Will appears to notice. He waits patiently without a hint of annoyance.

Alex is the first to break. “It’s just – a combination of a lot of different things, you know? Feels like, I don’t know, if this semester were a book, prom would be the big climatic chapter where everything comes to a head.”

Dr. Will considers this. “To use your metaphor, is there a particular plot thread of this story that’s causing you the most stress or anxiety?”

“No,” Alex lies, because he’s not ready to talk about John. Not yet. Then, because Dr. Will is waiting expectantly, Alex adds, “It’s more… a general feeling of inadequacy, I guess. That’s been the theme of my life ever since – um. Ever since before I moved to the Washingtons.”

He thinks Dr. Will is going to pounce on his stumble, try to pry into his mind, but instead he surprises Alex by telling him, “That’s quite insightful, Alex. I would wager a guess that you know yourself better than most people your age.”

“I mean. I guess?” Alex shrugs one shoulder. He’s mostly just been trying to survive.

“Okay. Let me ask you this,” Dr. Will says. “See if we can’t pick apart some of your anxiety. What’s got you more worried – that you’re going to mess up at prom, or that you’re going to find yourself stuck in a bad situation someone else has caused?”

That one makes Alex pause. “I guess… I guess it’s both,” he finally decides. “I’m most worried about finding myself, like you said, stuck in a bad situation, and that I’m gonna make a big mistake trying to get out of it that’ll just make things worse.”

“So you’re feeling trapped. Maybe a little helpless.”

“Well, yeah.” Alex toys with button on the sleeve of his Lake Forest blue blazer. “It’s not ‘if’ the next bad thing happens. It’s ‘when.’ I feel like I’ve gotta always be ready so I won’t be caught off guard this time.”

Dr. Will nods. “You’ve been caught off guard before.”

Dropping his eyes to his lap, Alex says, “Too many times.”

“And being ready, as you put it, that helps you to do what? Stay in control?”

“It helps…” Alex chews his lip, trying to put it into words. “Like, you can’t be disappointed, if your expectations were never high in the first place, right? So if I go to prom ready for something to go wrong, I can just deal with it, rather than letting what happens ruin my good time.”

“So you’re saying that your good time can’t be ruined if you don’t have a good time in the first place,” Dr. Will observes.

“No, I mean, I can still have fun, I just—” Alex sighs in frustration. “It’s more like, just keeping that thought in the back of my head, you know? Being on guard.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Dr. Will says, surprising Alex again.

Alex narrows his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that’s distorted thinking, or whatever?”

“Mmm,” Dr. Will hums. “Sure, it’s distorted thinking, but it can be more useful to think of it as an adaptive coping skill. It was a tool your brain used in the past to survive, and it worked – in certain situations, it kept you feeling safe, helped you keep your guard up when you needed to. But now that you’re in a different environment, it’s not as helpful. It might even be hurting you.”

“It’s not like I can just shut that part of my brain off,” Alex points out defensively.

“No,” Dr. Will agrees. “It’s tough to retrain your brain, and it’s not going to happen overnight. And you might still encounter situations where worst-case-scenario thinking _is_ an adaptive tool to use – if you can use it effectively, and not let it take over.”

Alex crosses his arms over his chest. “So, which category does prom fall under, then?”

Smiling, Dr. Will adjusts his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “That’s a valid question.”

“But one you’re not going to answer,” Alex guesses.

“I wouldn’t be a very good therapist if I did. I do want to take some time in today’s session to talk about your goals, what you’re hoping to get out of meeting with me, but I think based on what we’ve talked about already today, a helpful starting point might be talking more about distorted thoughts – or what I call thinking errors.”

“Thinking errors,” Alex echoes. 

Nodding, Dr. Will digs through his desk, unearthing a piece of paper. “I’ve got a worksheet here—”

Alex can’t help the snort that escapes, and hastily turns it into a cough. Dr. Will mostly just looks amused as he hands the double-sided sheet of paper to Alex. “Your homework assignment for next week is to read through this list of thinking errors and write down a couple of examples. I want you to start to recognize when these thoughts are happening.”

Taking the paper, Alex skims through the list. He raises one eyebrow at Dr. Will. “You’re really giving me homework?”

“Most of the work in therapy happens between sessions. You can’t show up on game day expecting to get a big hit if you don’t put in the practice.”

“Not with that attitude,” Alex mutters under his breath, accidentally-on-purposely loud enough for Dr. Will to catch.

To his credit, Dr. Will just laughs. It even sounds genuine.

It’s the only reason Alex doesn’t bolt for the door when Dr. Will says, “Alright, let’s talk goals.”

-

By the time Alex gets on the bus and takes an empty seat near the back, the paper Dr. Will gave him is creased and wrinkled from his pocket. He pulls it out carefully, smoothing it over his thigh to read through the list again. _All-or-nothing thinking, catastrophizing, filtering out the positive_ … it’s hard to find a thinking error that Alex can’t come up with a recent example for.

“Damn it,” he mutters, shoving the list back in his pocket. At least his ‘homework’ will be easy since apparently he sucks at thinking. No, wait, now he’s _overgeneralizing_. God, it’s going to be exhausting examining every stupid thought in his head.

Resting his temple against the window, Alex lets the rumbling of the bus lull him until the tension drains away and all that’s left is the feeling of cold glass against his forehead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**THINKING ERRORS**

  * Overgeneralizing – taking one particular event and generalizing it to the rest of your life. ~~My dad left us and my mom died, so you can’t trust that people will always be there for you. Ha like I’m gonna give Dr. Will that example~~
  * Personalizing – assuming the world evolves around you, personalizing situations rather than acknowledging other possible factors that might be influencing the circumstances. ~~Personalized thought: Mrs. Laurens must hate me because she thinks I’m the reason John’s gay. Other factors: maybe she’s just a bitch? Nope can’t share this with Dr. Will either~~
  * Emotional Reasoning – assuming feelings are rational/based on reality. ~~Even though I’m always anxious the Washingtons are going to kick me out doesn’t mean they actually are. No, still too personal. Fuck this is hard.~~ Even though I’m always anxious about getting bad grades doesn’t mean I’m actually a bad student. Nailed it



 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for the kudos/comments - it's very motivating when i get stuck!! also, credit where credit is due, i lifted the thinking errors definitions from this site: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/what-mentally-strong-people-dont-do/201501/10-thinking-errors-will-crush-your-mental-strength 
> 
> see you in a week xoxo


	14. fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the ship is in the harbor now

The suit fits him perfectly. The dove gray jacket highlights his current tan, and Martha helped him iron his collared white undershirt until the fabric was crisp and wrinkle-free. For once, he doesn’t have his hair pulled back; it hangs sleekly just past his shoulders without a tangle in sight.

His tie is another story. It’s slippery-soft against his fingers, and lopsided no matter how many times he tries to knot it according to the directions on wikiHow.

Alex has decided that prom was a terrible mistake and it’s probably best he crawl back under the covers, suit and all, until everything is wrinkled and completely ruined, when there’s a soft knock on his door.

“Yeah?” he calls, not bothering to keep the frustration out of his voice.

It’s George who opens the door, his footsteps nearly silent as he pads into the room despite his large frame. He comes to a stop behind Alex, meeting his eye in the mirror’s reflection.

“Looking sharp.”

“Oh yes, because the untied-tie look is really in right now.” It hangs limply around his neck like an oversized, navy spaghetti noodle. Alex wants to crumple it into a ball.

Resting one large hand on Alex’s shoulder, George says mildly, “You know, I was in college before I could successfully tie a tie. Wasn’t until I had an internship in undergrad where I had to wear one daily that I finally managed to figure it out, but not without a lot of help from Martha.”

“ _Martha_ taught you how to tie a tie?”

George grins. “My wife is a very capable woman. If it weren’t for her, I honestly don’t know where I’d be.” Reaching over Alex’s shoulders, he picks up the ends of the tie. “Do you want a hand with this? Martha can tie it backwards, but I can’t do it without looking in a mirror.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Alex tells him, “Sure, I guess.” He watches George’s hands carefully as he loops the tie around itself. Even though it seems like he’s done the steps exactly the same way Alex did, when George pulls on the ends to tighten it, a perfectly symmetrical knot forms to rest at Alex’s throat.

Would his mom have been able to help him with this? Was she as capable as Martha? Were her hands as steady as George’s?

“Thanks,” Alex says quietly, sliding a finger between the tie and his neck to loosen it just a little. Just enough that he can breathe again.

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead tonight,” George tells him with all the confidence of a sitcom dad.

Alex blows out an exasperated breath. “I don’t even have a date.” Well. Maybe. But not one he gets to take stupid, posed pictures with or hold too close during a slow dance or kiss right there in front of everybody.

“Their loss,” George says decisively. “Any girl – or guy – would be lucky to have you.”

Alex’s breath catches in his throat. “Um.” He swallows once. Twice. “Really? You, uh, think that?”

“I know it for a fact.” George gives Alex’s shoulder one last squeeze before dropping his hand, as if his simple inclusion hasn’t shaken Alex to the core. Downstairs, the doorbell rings.

Alex adjusts his tie one last time, smooths down a flyaway hair.

Showtime.

-

Herc and his parents are the first to arrive at the Washingtons. Alex can’t fathom why all of their parents are so insistent about getting together to take prom pictures, particularly as none of them have dates, but no one gave him veto power, so here he is.

Herc’s wearing a reflective pair of sunglasses, which he slides off his face as he comes through the door, tucking them into the breast pocket of his red velvet suit jacket. There are few people who could pull off that look, and Herc’s on the short list. He grins widely, and it’s a safe assumption he knows it.

“Alex, my man, lookin’ _good_.” Herc claps a meaty hand on Alex’s shoulder before something behind Alex catches his eye. “ _Bro!_ ”

Alex turns around in time to see the end of Lafayette’s descent down the stairs. He’s gone with a more classic black tux, but his dark green bowtie perfectly matches his vest. When he reaches the bottom step, he stops to take a bow, sweeping one hand out with a flourish.

The lines of Alex’s suit are fairly flattering, but he feels suddenly short and skinny standing next to Herc and Laf, between their broad shoulders and long legs, all carefully accentuated by the expensive cuts of their suits. They’re busy with an intricate high-five while Martha and George talk with Herc’s parents, which means there’s no audience for Alex’s wavering self-confidence. The doorbell going off a second time provides further distraction as John and his mom arrive to complete the party.

“Martha! So good to see you,” Mrs. Laurens says as she steps inside, doing that French air-kiss thing to both of Martha’s cheeks. “Henry couldn’t make it, but he sends his regards.”

It’s only because Alex has trained himself to watch for it that he catches the way Martha’s smile thins, just a little. “Of course. We’re sorry to hear that, Eleanor,” is her reply, ever the gracious host. “But so glad that you could be here for John, at least.”

Mrs. Laurens dips her head in acknowledgment. “Support comes in so many different ways, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” Martha says. “I’m sure the boys appreciate knowing their parents care.” Raising her voice slightly, she addresses the entire overcrowded hallway. “Okay, let’s head to the backyard, everybody. I want to get at least a couple quality photos before there are any wrinkles or stains!”

Alex takes the opportunity to shuffle closer to John as everyone makes their way to the back of the house. There’s nothing flashy about John’s navy suit or skinny black tie, but he looks so good it’s all Alex can do to keep himself from pressing John against the wall right there in the hallway to kiss the frown off his face.

He settles for nudging his shoulder against John’s. “Is it just me, or were the claws about to come out back there?”

“You caught that tension too, huh?” John whispers back. He shakes his head. “I don’t know the details, but I think things have been a little… heated during PTA meetings.”

It’s Alex’s turn to frown. “What? What PTA meetings?” He gave a revised version of his list to Martha what feels like weeks ago now, then sort of forgot about it. “What happened?”

Before John can answer, Lafayette interrupts, squeezing himself in between them and looping his arms through both of theirs. “Telling secrets?” he grins.

“Fuck off,” John tells him, but very, very quietly so the parents all around them don’t overhear.

Alex doesn’t get a chance to ask him again before he and John are ushered along with the rest of the boys in front of Martha’s prized blooms for group pictures. Martha fusses with Lafayette’s bowtie and Alex’s hair, brushing invisible lint off both their shoulders before she finally decides they’re camera ready.

The boys take it seriously for the first few pictures, but things quickly devolve into ridiculous poses and even more ridiculous faces the longer they’re in front of the cameras. Before things can get too derailed, they take some family shots; Herc with his parents and John with his mom. Alex takes an automatic step back when it’s Lafayette’s turn with the Washingtons, and three different hands reach for him to pull him into the frame.

Lafayette wraps his arm over Alex’s shoulder and Martha loops hers around his waist, George towering over all of them in the back, and then Alex is smiling while the phones and cameras flash like this is a normal occurrence in his life.

“Take one with the polaroid!” Laf demands before Alex can pull away, and Herc is quick to oblige, snapping off a shot with Lafayette’s camera. Laf pounces on the photo the second the polaroid spits it out, shaking it in the warm spring air.

“Abigail’s going to want a copy of one of these,” Martha murmurs, flicking through the camera roll when Herc’s dad hands her phone back to her, showing George the results. She must have some kind of mom sixth-sense thing, because the second Alex starts to edge away, hoping for an end to the pictures, she looks up and narrows her eyes at him.

“Oh, wait, Alex – you and John complement each other so well, don’t you two want a picture together?”

They don’t quite match, but Alex’s tie is only a shade or two darker than John’s suit, and it’s not like the navy and gray clash. Alex still finds Martha’s logic suspect, but he doesn’t get the chance to form a diplomatic refusal before both he and John are rather forcibly nudged back in front of the flowery backdrop.

John scrunches his nose at Alex, like he also knows what Martha’s up to, but doesn’t see an exit strategy either. Under the watchful eye of Mrs. Laurens, they carefully arrange themselves shoulder to shoulder, grinning for the camera.

“John, sweetheart, don’t smile so wide that it makes you squint your eyes like that – you’ll ruin the pictures,” Mrs. Laurens instructs as she holds up her phone, framing the shot.

“That’s alright, boys,” Martha says. “We’re going to capture all the memories, so you’ll have your pick of which pictures you want. Who knows? Maybe you’ll like one of the outtakes best.”

She’s too classy to have any tone whatsoever in her voice, and Mrs. Laurens’ polite expression only slips for a second before she fixes it back into place. It’s the most nuanced game of chess Alex has witnessed.

“Ugh, not with that pose!” Laf complains. “Herc and I want to see _passion_. We want to see chemistry! Isn’t that right, Herc?”

“Um,” says Herc.

Lafayette’s elbow finds its way between Herc’s ribs, and Herc’s palm finds an even quicker target in Laf’s bicep that leaves him wincing. “Watch yourself,” Herc warns Lafayette, but then he turns to John and Alex and adds, “But he’s right, this shi—uh, this pose is weak. Are you here to make friends? Or are you here to be America’s next top model?”

John rolls his eyes. “The first one, Tyra.”

Lafayette and Herc aren’t that easily dissuaded, though, and much to everyone save for Mrs. Laurens’ amusement, in short order Alex finds himself in a classic prom pose with John: his back to John’s front, John’s arms around him with their hands intertwined.

“You guys are ridiculous. This is ridiculous,” Alex says as Laf circles them like a member of the paparazzi, snapping shots with his polaroid.

“The camera loves you,” he chirps, going down on one knee to aim the camera up at them.

“Watch the suit!” Martha warns. “The cleaning fee’ll be extra for grass stains, Gilbert.”

Jumping to his feet, Lafayette snaps a smart salute Martha’s way. She shakes her head, but still tips her face up to smack a quick kiss to Lafayette’s cheek. “Okay, what about one last normal pose for John and Alex? Can we agree on that? And then I want one of Alex and Gil together before we wrap this up.”

She’s made it impossible for Mrs. Laurens to object. _Checkmate_ , Alex thinks viciously, sliding his arm around John’s waist as John drapes his across Alex’s shoulders. He smiles as wide as he can, until his eyes are probably just slits. The flash is still bright, momentarily blinding him. He blinks back into focus as he turns his face towards John, and finds John grinning back at him.

Alex’s heart thuds, hard.

Then the moment passes, and Laf’s taking John’s place, and Alex’s jaw hurts from holding his smile for so long.

“Okay, enough, enough, the boys are going to be late for dinner if they don’t get going,” George says, the voice of reason as always.

Alex lets himself be herded to the car, laughing at Laf and Herc’s clowning. He glances back to wave goodbye to Martha and George, and accidentally catches Mrs. Laurens’ eye instead.

He can’t quite interpret her expression, but it’s more real – more raw – than the annoyance plastered over with a thin veneer of politeness that seems to be her default. For a single moment, she holds Alex’s gaze, lets him see whatever emotion is playing across her face without trying to hide it.

Then she turns away, that polite smile back in place as she listens to something Herc’s mom says.

“What are the chances your mom murders me in my sleep?” Alex whispers to John.

“Less than one hundred, but definitely more than zero,” John decides, glancing back over his shoulder. Mrs. Laurens lifts a hand and John waves back. “But only because she thinks you’re going to ruin my life.”

“So no pressure, then.”

Laughing, John nudges Alex into the backseat of Lafayette’s car. “Let’s make a deal, okay? You don’t ruin my life, and I won’t let my mom murder you. I think those are fair terms.”

Up front, Lafayette and Hercules are arguing over playlist selections, the bassline loud enough to make the car vibrate. Alex presses closer to John so he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard over the music, or overheard from the front seat. “I hate to admit that I might have something in common with your mom, but I’d probably try to murder anyone who I thought was going to ruin your life, too.”

“Let’s get this party fucking _started_ ,” Herc yells before John can reply, evidently winning the playlist battle if the triumphant dancing is anything to go by. It involves a lot of shoulder action.

Huffing in exasperation, Laf backs out of the driveway. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

John doesn’t say anything else, just reaches across the backseat to link his hand with Alex’s.

-

The only minor disaster at dinner is diverted with Lafayette’s clutch save with a Tide to-go pen. They make it to prom more or less unscathed, though Herc starts checking his watch almost as soon as they walk through the doors, ready for Madison’s after party.

“Can’t go to an after party if you don’t party at the current party,” Lafayette points out, a little nonsensically.

“That sounds like a shitty tongue-twister,” Herc tells him. “And shittier life advice.”

“Oh, look, it’s the Schuyler sisters!” Ignoring Herc, Lafayette waves enthusiastically. “Angelica! Eliza! Over here!”

Both girls make their way over, and Eliza heads straight to Alex, clasping his shoulders with both hands as she beams up at him. “Alex, you look so handsome!” She pulls him into a quick hug.

Alex squeezes her back. “And you look absolutely stunning.” It’s not a lie – her dress is a light, shimmery blue/green color that looks almost silver under the light. Alex knows even less about dress styles than he does suits, but whatever type of dress it is, it clings to her perfectly.

“Gorgeous,” Lafayette agrees, offering her a hand, then lifting their joined arms together to spin her in a circle that makes her skirt flair out. Eliza laughs in delight.

“I want pictures with all of you,” she demands. “Before my hair gets frizzy or someone spills punch. C’mon, they have a photo booth thing over there.”

There’s a short line for the photo booth thing Eliza was talking about as more students trickle through the doors, their group taking up most of it.

“ _’The Story of Tonight’_?” Herc reads the glittering words arched over the photo booth, making a face. “What does that even mean?”

“Don’t get her started,” Angelica warns, but it’s too late; Eliza’s already sucking in a deep breath.

“First of all,” she says, hands on her hips. “It’s a better theme than _A Winter’s Ball._ Like, it’s spring, you know?”

Hercules looks entirely too amused. “Can’t argue with you there.”

“Anyway,” Eliza continues, swatting at Herc, who pantomimes injury. “The whole point is it’s about the memories we’re making tonight – like, looking back at this night as the start of something, of – of the rest of our lives.”

“I’ll raise a glass to that,” Laf declares, holding up what appears to be a silver flask before knocking back a swallow.

“Where did you get that?” John asks. “Did you really smuggle a flask in? And more importantly, can I have some?”

Shaking her head, Angelica says, “Just don’t spike the punch, okay? That last thing you need is to get expelled a few weeks before the end of the school year.”

“Bro, you’re gonna drink without even cheers-ing me?” Herc complains, pulling out his own flask.

John nearly howls. “Okay, how come nobody told me about this flask smuggling plan? Alex, did you know about this plan? Why do you guys suck so bad?”

With helpless laughter, Alex shrugs. “Sorry, man, they didn’t tell me either.”

The line inches up, moving them closer to one of the adult chaperones, and both flasks are tucked out of sight before John gets any alcohol.

“You guys are the worst,” he hisses.

Lafayette looks unbothered. “The night is young, mon ami. A mere infant! A tiny, little baby, and—”

They don’t get to hear the rest of Laf’s unorthodox metaphor before it’s their turn in front of the photo booth thing, and the six of them manage to squeeze in together for a group shot. Alex ends up in front, a Schuyler sister on each arm, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

-

Eliza drags them to the dance floor next, and before long, they’re all a little sweaty and flushed. Herc loses his jacket so he can really cut loose, though it’s hard to say if it’s just Herc being Herc or the now empty flask he left in his jacket pocket. The rest of them at least loosen their ties, save for Lafayette, who insists on preserving the dignity of his bowtie.

Alex is about to announce that he needs a water break when the unrelenting club remixes the DJ’s been playing finally give way to a slow song. A good third of the kids on the dance floor make their way to the sidelines, but Eliza stops Alex with one hand on his wrist.

“One for what might have been?” she smiles up at him, all rosy cheeks and slightly clumped mascara that mostly just makes her brown eyes look almost too big for her face. It’s not a smile Alex can say no to. He settles his hands on Eliza’s slim hips as she wraps hers around his neck, swaying more or less on beat to the music.

“You know, you really do look beautiful tonight,” Alex tells her. Even more-so now that her cheeks are flushed pink and a few flyaway strands of hair stick to her temple.

“And you’re still too charming for your own good,” Eliza teases him. Pressing up on her toes so she can whisper directly into his ear, she adds, “I think someone’s feeling a little jealous.”

She drops back down, raising one brow at the confused expression on Alex’s face, and then deliberately turns them 180 degrees.

And – oh. John’s standing at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes pinned on Alex and Eliza while Herc and Laf are having an animated discussion about god knows what next to him.

Eliza is sweet and beautiful, and in another lifetime, maybe he’d be lucky enough to be the one who gets to go home with her. But she doesn’t make his heart beat faster. Doesn’t knock the air from his lungs with a single, intense look across the room.

“I—” Alex falters. Can’t put it into words for once in his life.

Eliza’s kind eyes glitter under the lights. “Is this going to be a night you tell your children about someday?”

Pulling himself together by a thread, Alex huffs. “You’re making an awful lot of assumptions with that statement.”

“And you’re stalling. The song’s almost over.”

“There will be other slow songs,” Alex points out, but Eliza’s already untangling her arms from him, placing one hand on the small of his back and giving him a not-so-gentle shove in John’s direction.

Alex reaches John in a few short steps. He reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ears, then fumbles with his hands, trying to figure out something to do with them besides letting them hang limply at his sides. John doesn’t look away for even a second.

“The song’s not over,” he says, so neutrally polite that Alex knows he’s bothered. “Shouldn’t you still be dancing with her?”

“Eliza is a really wonderful person,” Alex tells him. “But she’s not the one I came here to dance with tonight.”

He suddenly knows exactly what to do with his hands, and holds one out, palm up in offering. The message is crystal clear.

John hesitates, sucking in an audible breath. “What if I can’t?”

“Then I’ll wait. Until next year’s prom, or – or longer than that, if I have to. Until you’re out of your parents’ house. Until you don’t have to hide anymore.”

Alex doesn’t drop his hand as a myriad of emotions cross John’s face. John takes another deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I’m done waiting.”

Alex’s patience is rewarded when John finally places his palm against Alex’s, lacing their fingers together.

There’s barely a minute left of the song, but it’s enough time for them to thread their way to the middle of the dance floor, for John to fit his hands around Alex’s waist, for Alex to grip the back of John’s neck. Alex can’t hear anything but his own thundering heartbeat, can’t see anything but John through his tunnel vision. The rush of adrenaline is tempered by the gentle pressure of John’s hands, tethering Alex to reality even as he feels like maybe he could float away.

They could be the only two people left in the world and Alex wouldn’t notice.

It’s over way too quickly, and the final note hasn’t even faded when a voice cuts in, reality crashing back down.

“Well, would you look at that. I guess the rumors were true after all.”

John immediately stiffens under Alex’s hands, but Alex just digs his fingers in harder. “Fuck off, Jefferson.”

“Hey, it’s a free country. I’m free to stand here and speak my mind, and you’re free to do… _that_ ,” Jefferson says, managing to turn a preposition into an insult with his tone alone.

John’s nearly vibrating, his muscles tense everywhere Alex is still touching him, but he keeps his words level, almost careless, as he asks Jefferson, “Are you jealous, Thomas, that Alex is getting more action than you?”

Jefferson scoffs, that smug smile slipping. “What, jealous of you two shuffling in tandem to a slow song with enough room for Jesus in between? If that’s your idea of action—”

Dragging his hand up Alex’s chest, John cups Alex’s cheek, brushing back his hair. “This isn’t a political statement,” he says to Alex.

Alex can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “No?”

John grins back. “Nah. It’s a free country.” He angles in, slotting their mouths together, immediately taking advantage of Alex’s surprised breath hitch to slip his tongue past Alex’s teeth. The kiss only lasts until the baseline of the next song starts to pound, the dance floor filling up again, but it’s enough to shut Jefferson up.

He opens his mouth like he wants to shoot back a retort as John and Alex pull apart, but nothing comes out. Shaking his head, he turns on his heel, shoving his way through the crowd as he retreats in silence.

Alex watches him walk away in disbelief. “I’ve been trying to do that for months.”

John laughs, sounding a little shaky. “Holy fuck, I can’t believe I just did that.”

Pulling John in for a hug, Alex tells him, “I don’t think anyone’s gonna buy a printed retraction this time around.”

John wraps his arms tightly around Alex, holding him close. “If my dad tries to send me off to boarding school, you’ll let me live in the Washingtons’ basement, right? Bring me snacks so I don’t starve?”

“I’d do anything for you,” Alex promises, not even scared by how much he means it.

-

The heady mix of hairspray, sweat, and too many different kinds of perfume and cologne leaves Alex feeling dizzy after a solid hour of dancing.

“We’ve put in our time,” Herc declares, perspiration dotting his forehead. “We’ve danced our asses off. It’s time to get drunk.”

They pile in Lafayette’s car after tracking down various articles of clothing they’ve managed to lose and roll up to Madison’s in short order. It’s immediately evident that the after party is well underway.

There’s no live band, but there is enough alcohol to give them all cirrhosis. Hercules quickly takes over the keg, muscling underclassmen out of the way to pour them all a drink. Red solo cups in hand, they stumble outside to the patio, where string lights wrapped around the pergola twinkle overhead and reflect against a large pool with water almost too blue to look at.

“Summer’s right around the corner, boys. Let’s raise a glass to freedom.” Hercules lifts his cup towards the stars.

“To the four of us!” Lafayette chimes in, knocking his cup against Herc’s, beer sloshing over the side.

John and Alex join in, then Herc is chugging his beer and already turning to go back inside, shouting about another round.

Sobriety quickly becomes a limited resource, though Alex hasn’t quite crossed the line between pleasantly buzzed and drunk just yet. He’s content to stretch out across the Madison’s ridiculously comfortable patio furniture, John at his side nursing his second or third beer. Laf and Herc are doing – something, Alex isn’t sure what, possibly a dance off or maybe some kind of intricately choreographed fight – but it looks reckless, especially as they’re right at the edge of the pool.

“My money’s on Herc falling in first,” Alex tells John, taking a sip of beer.

John shakes his head. “Nah. He’s got surprising balance for such a big dude. Laf’s too cocky. He’ll be the one to fall in.”

“I’ll push both those motherfuckers in myself,” Madison says cheerfully, and Alex has to crane his neck to look up to see Madison leaning heavily against the back of the couch.

“Easy, James,” Jefferson cuts in. “You want them dripping water everywhere?” He looks down, apparently noticing Alex and John for the first time. “Ah. You boys have figured out how to keep your hands to yourself, I see.”

Alex’s grin feels loose with alcohol. “Afraid you’ll catch the gay?”

“I was thinking of other communicable diseases,” Jefferson says dryly.

John drains his beer. “Too bad there’s no cure for being an asshole.”

“Okay, you know what—” They don’t get to find out what, because Lafayette interrupts, beckoning Jefferson over.

“Thomas! Thomas, mon ami, come here. I have a question for you.” Lafayette is giggling, well over the line past tipsy and into drunk territory. With one last dismissive glance at Alex and John, Jefferson makes his way over to the edge of the pool. Alex can’t hear what Lafayette is saying to him, but it involves a lot of big, grand gestures, Laf’s arms flailing wildly as he talks.

“I really don’t get what Laf sees in him,” Alex tells John. “Like, there’s nothing about him that isn’t insufferable.”

“I know! It’s like— oh my god.” As they watch, one of Lafayette’s hands connects with Jefferson’s shoulder hard enough that Jefferson stumbles back a step. The arch of his foot catches on the edge of the pool, and his eyes go wide as his arms windmill out, flapping uselessly as he tries and fails to regain balance.

“No fucking way,” Alex laughs, unable to look away as Jefferson falls backwards into the pool with a loud splash. Neither Herc nor Lafayette manage to get completely out of the way, and they get even wetter when Jefferson resurfaces, shaking his hair out like a wet dog, spraying water everywhere, his eyes pure fire.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Je suis tellement désolé!” Lafayette’s apology might sound more sincere if he weren’t trying to get the words out between peals of breathless laughter. He glances Alex’s way and winks; or at least, he tries to, but it turns into more of a lopsided blink.

Alex raises his cup in acknowledgment, grinning so wide his face hurts.

“Guess we were both wrong,” John says.

“This is a bet I’m fine with losing.”

Jefferson slogs his way to the edge of the pool, trying to pull himself out with his waterlogged suit dragging him down. Lafayette offers him a hand and he slaps it away, while Madison hovers just outside of the splash zone, clearly the only bright one of the bunch.

“I need another beer. You wanna get out of here before Jefferson finds a way to blame this on us and tries to enact revenge?”

Alex jumps to his feet, immediately changing his mind: John is obviously the brightest one of the bunch. “I vote we find an empty bedroom and you can tell more about your thoughts on living in a free country.”

Laughing, John leads the way inside to the kitchen, squeezing his way through the doorway. Alex stands back to let someone through before following John inside, and swallows his surprise when he comes face to face with Burr.

Burr, for his part, looks equally shocked. “Alexander. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

John’s already joined the crowd at the keg, oblivious to Alex’s predicament. “Yeah, I, uh,” Alex scratches the back of his neck. He’s not sober enough for this conversation, but there’s no apparent exit. Burr’s eye has healed, but his expression is wary as he realizes the same thing.

Alex clears his throat. “Herc wouldn’t let us miss this party despite the guest list.”

It’s meant to be a dig at Jefferson, but too late Alex realizes his blunder. He braces for a quick retort, or maybe even a flying fist, but Burr just looks at him.

“I should’ve said, before, but – congrats, on the internship interview. I hope it went well. No, seriously,” he adds before Alex can get a reply out. “I mean it, Alex. I’ve had some time to reflect, you know, and I just – I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us.”

He holds out a hand for Alex to shake. Cautiously, Alex extends his own hand, clasping Burr’s in a firm grip.

Apparently Burr has said his piece, because he releases Alex hand, giving him a quick nod before disappearing down the hall. They might never be friends, but this truce is something they can both live with.

Alex finally crosses the threshold into the kitchen, where John’s just topping off his beer. He jerks his head towards the opposite doorway that leads deeper into the house, one eyebrow quirked in a question.

In answer, Alex follows on his heels as John leads them towards the stairs and through the first open door they spot. John sets his beer down on the dresser before settling on the edge of the bed, beckoning Alex closer. He scoots back to give Alex enough room to straddle his knees over John’s lap, and then they’re face to face.

John’s skinny tie is still knotted around his neck, but loose enough that he’s been able to pop open the top few buttons on his shirt. He lets Alex push his jacket off his shoulders, holding onto Alex’s waist so he doesn’t lose his balance and pitch backwards off the bed.

He’s gotten as far as burying his hair into John’s short curls and kissing the spot on John’s neck that makes John’s breath catch every time before the door busts open behind him.

“ _Why_?” Alex whines, slumping forward and letting his dead weight force John backwards until his shoulders hit the mattress with a bounce, Alex collapsed on his chest.

Eliza’s distinct laugh comes from the doorway. “Am I interrupting?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Alex says emphatically, while John quickly shakes his head _no_. His protest would probably seem more sincere if his hands weren’t currently resting on Alex’s ass.

“Right. Well, if either of you are interested in a ride home, Laf’s talked Angelica into stopping at that stupid waffle place you guys love. I think she only agreed to stop the carnage, but this is a one-time offer.”

“What carnage?” Alex asks at the same time John says, “Wait, how many people can Angelica fit in her car?”

Picking up John’s beer from the dresser, Eliza just says, “Hey, this is still cold” before chugging it down.

-

“Why did I agree to this again?”

Somehow, the four of them have managed to squeeze into the back of Angelica’s car. In the front seat, Eliza’s rolled the window down, sticking her face out to catch the warm breeze as Angelica pulls away from the Madison’s house.

“It’s a little damp back here,” John complains, wiggling under Alex, because of course, the only way to squeeze four teenage boys into the backseat was to have someone sit on someone else’s lap.

Angelica doesn’t sound impressed. “And whose fault is that?”

“Jefferson’s,” three voices chime in together as Lafayette says darkly, “That Benedict Arnold asshole. The French are a forgiving people, but I will take this grudge to the grave. My briefs are _soaked_.”

Angelica winces. “TMI, Laf.”

“You did push him in first,” Alex points out, mostly to rile Laf up some more because it’s funny, and also distracts from the feeling of John’s thighs shifting underneath him.

“An accident!” Lafayette laments, immediately riled up. “I mean, kind of. And anyway, that burgundy suit was a crime. Now Jefferson has the opportunity to take a few pictures to remember this night that won’t be ruined by it.”

“That’s certainly one way to spin it,” Angelica mutters.

Predictably, no one at Waffle Shack cares that half their party is wet and most of it is drunk. There’re too many of them to fit into a booth, but they push two tables together while the indifferent staff ignores them.

Herc somehow manages to goad Eliza into trying a mint shot, which Angelica gets on camera, and when Laf accidentally knocks over a nearly full glass of diet coke, their collective effort to mop it up is somehow a success, preventing any would-be stains.

Alex forgets to worry, forgets to overthink, forgets to brace for whatever shit life is going to throw at him next. But for once, it’s okay.

Underneath the table, John holds his hand tight, and Alex feels like he’s finally right where he belongs.

-

Alex wakes up with a warm body in bed next to him and no idea where he is. Blinking open sleep-crusted eyes and dragging his wrist over his mouth, he rolls over to face his own bedroom walls.

Well. That’s a relief, at least.

Slowly, he pushes himself to a sitting position. His headache is minor, only a low-grade pounding that can probably be chased away with a glass or two of water.

The body next to him moans softly, and one glance tells Alex that Lafayette’s morning is probably not going to be pleasant.

“I’m going to die,” Lafayette mumbles. “My _head_.”

“Gross, dude, not in my bed. Die in your own room.”

Lafayette gropes around until his fingers find Alex’s wrist, clinging to him. “Please, mon chou. Put me out of my misery.”

Taking pity, Alex swings his feet out of bed, padding on bare feet to the bathroom to grab some painkillers before heading down the stairs for a bottle of water. He digs around the back of the fridge to find one, and as he lets the door swing shut, he comes face to face with a new picture stuck to the stainless steel, next to the one of Lafayette and the Washingtons at the beach.

It’s one of Lafayette’s polaroid shots from yesterday: the picture of the four of them, Martha and Laf sandwiching Alex between them while George takes up the entire back row himself, one large hand on Laf’s shoulder and the other on Martha’s. They look like a real family, despite the difference in Alex’s skin tone.

Their smiles match, at least, and Alex pauses for a long moment, unable to decipher the feeling making his chest so tight.

“Oh, Alex, you’re up,” Martha says, and Alex whirls around.

“Yeah, I, uh – Laf’s not feeling well, so I was just getting him some water.” He feels caught, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Martha just smiles knowingly. “I’m sure he’s not. Why don’t you go on and take that water up to him, and then come to the living room? George and I wanted to talk with you about something important.”

Dread immediately coils in Alex’s gut. “Sure,” he says, wondering what he should be bracing for. They’re going to ask him to move now that the school year is up, because he’s a bad influence on Lafayette or it’s too expensive to pay for another year of tuition. Or – maybe they’ll let him stay, but he’ll have to take the bus to his old public school every day. Or Abigail found an even more promising, younger, less-damaged foster kid they’d rather take on instead, one that doesn’t need to go to therapy every week, and—

Alex takes a deep breath, forcing himself to take the steps up the staircase one at a time. Thinking error. These are thinking errors. This is his brain’s way of coping with stress, that’s all.

Recognizing that his thoughts are spiraling out of control only helps a little. As Alex hands a grateful Laf a cold bottle of water and the painkillers, he resolves to ask Dr. Will what the hell he’s supposed to do with his stupid, broken brain now that they’ve determined that it’s stupid and broken.

Lafayette shows no signs of getting up, making himself at home under Alex’s covers, so Alex heads back down the stairs alone, focusing on his breathing.

Whatever it is, he believes – no, he _knows_ – that George and Martha are kind people. He just needs to trust that it’s going to be okay.

It doesn’t stop his palms from going slick with sweat as they sit him down, and he anxiously rubs them on his thighs.

“You’re nervous,” Martha realizes. “I’m sorry, Alex, I should’ve clarified – you’re not in trouble, or anything like that.”

Alex relaxes a fraction. “Oh. That’s good. I mean, I wasn’t sure what I might’ve – that’s good.”

George smiles warmly. “Let’s get right to the point, alright? We’re almost six months from your 18th birthday—”

The anxiety comes rushing back, and Alex braces for impact.

“—which Abigail assures us is not going to be an issue, especially considering that you’ll still be finishing up your senior year. Nevertheless, Martha and I have talked it over, and although that solution is, legally-speaking, quite feasible, we’re concerned that it doesn’t offer enough permanency.”

Alex’s mouth is dry as he licks his lips. “I thought you were getting right to the point.”

Martha laughs. “He is long-winded, isn’t he? Alright, here’s the point George was trying to make: we know you’re close to 18, and this probably isn’t how you envisioned it, but we want to be here for you in a long-term way that extending your time in the system just doesn’t allow for. If you’re willing, Alex, we’d like to officially adopt you.”

For a long moment, Alex can only stare. “What?”

“You can take some time to think about it, of course, and talk things through with Abigail. We know you’re going to be applying for colleges in the fall, though, and we don’t want you to feel like you’re no longer a part of our family once you go off to school,” George says.

“You’d be welcome back during the holidays even if you decide not to go for the adoption,” Martha assures him. “We just wanted you to know that’s not an empty invitation. You’re truly a part of our family, Alex.”

Alex opens his mouth, not sure what’s going to come out of it. “But – but I’m still on probation.”

“A deferred prosecution agreement, technically,” George reminds him, like the distinction matters. “Which you’re a month away from completing successfully. But you should know that this offer would stand even if you were formally placed on probation; it’s not contingent on anything other than you wanting it too. That’s what a family is, son.”

“That’s presumptuous,” Alex says before he can bite the words back. He winces, then clears his throat. “But, um. I don’t – I don’t actually mind when you call me that.”

The look on George’s face is one that Alex will never forget. Martha looks a little choked up herself, telling Alex, “Look, you don’t need to answer us now. Take some time to think about it, and—”

“I don’t need any time to think about it,” Alex interrupts Martha. “I want it, too. To be a part of your family, I mean.”

Martha’s eyes are suspiciously bright as she immediately reaches across the couch and pulls Alex into a hug, holding him so tight it’s a little hard to breathe. Alex hugs her back just as hard.

“What’s going on?” Laf asks, his voice a throaty croak. “Did somebody die?”

Giving Alex one last squeeze, Martha finally pulls back, dabbing at her eyes. “No, no, nothing like that.”

Lafayette leans one shoulder against the doorway, rubbing at his temple. “There is a weird vibe in here, and I don’t think it’s in my head.”

“No, Gil, that’s the hangover,” George says dryly. “But the good news is that you’re officially getting a brother.”

Holding his curled fist to his mouth, Laf yawns wide enough to crack his jaw. “Yeah? Hope he’s cooler than Alex.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Alex warns him, picking up a decorative pillow and tossing it at Lafayette’s head because he doesn’t know what to do with all the emotions bubbling up inside him. Laf barely manages to deflect it, his reflexes clearly impacted.

“Okay, adoption does not mean you get a free license to throw things,” Martha says, but she’s laughing, so Alex doesn’t think he’s in too much trouble.

“Adoption?” Laf echoes. His eyes narrow, then widen with realization. “An official brother? You mean…? Mon Dieu! _Alex_!”

Lafayette throws himself at Alex in what’s either a tackle or a hug. It involves a lot of limbs and knocks the air out of Alex’s lungs, and it’s hard for him to suck in a breath with Laf peppering kisses to the side of his head. “My _brother_ ,” Lafayette crows in delight.

Alex is a long way from that little Caribbean town where he lost everything in more ways than one, but for the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s home again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> **PROM: A NIGHT TO REMEMBER**
> 
> By A. Hamilton and E. Schuyler
> 
> The story of prom night is one to remember. Hosted at the Mt. Vernon Country Club for the 3rd year in a row, neither the music nor the decorations disappointed. The dance floor was packed from the first song to the last as Lake Forest students, mostly juniors and seniors, showed off some serious moves and let loose. With final exams just around the corner, it was a much-needed night of fun and excitement before the study sessions and all-nighters commence.
> 
> “Honestly? 10 out of 10, and I didn’t even stay the entire time,” said junior Hercules Mulligan. “The night was so magical I barely even remember all of it.”
> 
> “Sure, the decorations were fine,” added junior Thomas Jefferson. “I have no complaints about the aesthetic. The Mt. Vernon Country Club is a lovely venue, and very exclusive during other events, which is a bonus.”
> 
> It wasn’t just the venue that was aesthetically pleasing. Students truly dressed to impress, including Prom King and Queen… (cont. on page 5).

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this thing is nearly wrapped. epilogue coming next week. xoxo


	15. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just you wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it, folks!

When Alex used to lie awake at night, in a strange bedroom with blankets that smelled nothing like home pulled up to his chin, he only rarely let himself picture this moment. The judge in formal black robes, smiling down at him from the bench. His family beside him, their arms securely around his shoulders so he’d never forget for even a second that they were there. They never had faces in his imagination, but they made him feel the same way his mother did: safe and loved and cared for.

He wasn’t nearly an adult in those fantasies, either; back then, he was still a scared 13-year-old learning just how cruel the world could be, missing his mom and his home and wanting just a scrap of love more than anything else.

Neither George nor Martha have their arms around him now, but Alex doesn’t need that reassuring touch. Not anymore. It’s enough to sit between them as the judge goes through the formal process of finalizing his adoption, Lafayette erupting into loud applause at the back of the courtroom before the ink has even had a chance to dry. The bailiff looks on in amusement, and just like that, it’s over.

For the first time since his mother took her dying breath, Alex has a family again.

Outside the courtroom, Martha is the first to pull him into a hug, squeezing tight and holding on way too long, not that Alex complains. George gets his turn next, nearly crushing the air from Alex’s lungs. He’s barely sucked in a breath when Lafayette throws his arms around him, swinging Alex in a wild circle and almost taking out a row of chairs in the waiting area.

Even Abigail gets a hug, pulling back to tell him in a voice lowered for his ears only, “You deserve this more than most people I know, Alex. I’m so happy for you.”

It must be dusty in the courthouse, because Alex’s eyes won’t stop watering. “Thanks,” he manages to get out past his tight throat.

“Keep in touch, okay? You’re going to go far in life, and I want to stay updated.”

“You got it,” Alex promises, because Abigail is still one of the good ones.

-

The Washingtons host a combination Fourth-of-July/adoption celebration cookout, mostly because Alex insisted he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it and the timing worked out. There’s a cake with both an American flag and a picture of Alex and Laf cheesing for the camera, which Alex suspects is entirely Laf’s doing, though he won’t admit to anything.

Herc’s family is there, along with the Schuylers, though the Laurens sent their regrets that they wouldn’t be able to attend.

“Don’t need their bad vibes here anyway,” John declares, cutting himself another piece of cake, strategically going for Laf’s left eye. There’s not much left of his face, though Alex’s so far is fairly intact.

“The basement couch is really comfortable,” Alex reminds him for the sixth or seventh time. “And I bet at night, it would be so easy for me to sneak down there, you know, in case you were feeling a little lonely…”

John barks out a laugh before shoving a bite of cake in his mouth. The frosting stains his lips blue, and he swallows before replying, “Yeah, yeah. Look, the truce is still standing right now, but if my dad brings up military school again, I’ll take you up on the offer, okay?”

John doesn’t like talking about it, but Alex gets the sense that tensions are still running high in the Laurens’ household. They’ve adopted an unofficial don’t ask, don’t tell policy, but given John freedom back for the summer, which means his parents spend a lot of time not asking, and John spends a lot of time not telling.

“You have frosting on your face,” Alex tells him.

Sticking his tongue out, John licks his lips in exaggeration. “Did I get it?”

“Nope. There’s still some right… there…” Alex tries to wipe it away with his thumb, but John ducks his head, laughing. Wrapping his arm around John’s neck, Alex pulls him in, trying to get his mouth on John’s instead. That move has a lot more successful of a result.

“Hey, um, sorry to interrupt,” a quiet voice says, and Alex turns around, then looks down to spot the source.

It’s the little Schuyler sister. Peggy.

She looks nervous.

Alex keeps his arm looped around John’s neck, refusing to let a child intimidate him into heteronormativity, but he at least stops trying to kiss the frosting off John’s face. “What’s up?”

Peggy squares her thin shoulders, looking a lot less childlike all of the sudden. “I just wanted to ask – Liza said that you two were the gay guys that went to prom, right?”

Alex and John exchange a surprised look. _Our legacy_ , John mouths, and Alex discreetly steps on his foot. Turning back to Peggy, he says, “Um, yeah, that’s us.” When Peggy doesn’t say anything else, he gently prompts, “Why’re you asking?” even though he already suspects where this is going. He just didn’t expect Peggy to be so bold about it.

For a moment, Peggy worries her bottom lip between her teeth. It’s obvious the second she makes up her mind, because her nostrils flare and her expression turns to one of grim determination. Still, she stumbles over her words trying to get her question out. “Do you know if – if – if there’s ever been, um, a girl couple? At prom?”

Next to Alex, John goes very still as he catches on to what Alex has wondered about for a long time. What was it that Eliza said to him all those weeks ago? No one should have to hide who they are out of fear, and Alex could be the reason someone else is brave enough not to. Could make things safer for someone else.

Someone like Eliza’s baby sister.

“You know, I’m not sure if there has,” he says honestly. Carefully. “ _Yet_. But I think there should be. Why not?”

“Prom’s for everybody,” John adds, quickly rallying past his shock. “Anybody can go with who they want to go with. Guys, girls, whoever. That’s the way it should be.”

Peggy doesn’t look completely convinced, but she says, “Okay. If you say so,” before retreating with a flounce of her ponytail.

Alex turns towards John, and this time manages to wipe his thumb over the corner of John’s mouth, finally getting the frosting off his face. John bites at him in retaliation.

“Sorry we ended up being a political statement after all,” Alex says, snatching his thumb back to safety. “But you know, that’s a pretty sick legacy to leave behind at Lake Forest.”

“I think I can live with it,” John decides, slipping his hand into Alex’s and holding on tight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started this thing 6 months ago on a whim, thinking it'd be around 10 chapters and maybe 50k (lmao). i can't believe what a beast it turned into, but i finally got to write this end scene i've been planning since the start. thank you to everyone who stuck around for this journey and left kudos or kind comments, especially as this fic was several years late - knowing there was still people out there reading really truly helped me stay motivated to finish this thing! y'all are the real MVPs xoxo


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